


maybe if i loved you less

by owedbetter



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 12 will have been a Best Man 12 times by the time the fic is done., Clara is a professional wedding photographer., F/M, Fluff and Angst, Human AU, Romance, tw: abuse, wedding photographer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-24 11:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 73,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4918009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owedbetter/pseuds/owedbetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has been a best man too many times and the worst man just once. She's a wedding photographer who doesn't quite know where she's going. </p>
<p>Neither of them believe in love, they'll say - except they do. They do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  _Every beginning_  
_is only a sequel, after all,_  
_and the book of events  
__is always open halfway through._

-          From ‘Love at First Sight’ by Wislawa Szymborska 

* * *

  

Neither of them believed in love.

She was cheerfully cynical.

He was a grump – but a dreamer, an optimist.

She was kind.

He was too.

She was the type of person who stayed.

He ran away. Once.

She wanted to go.

He had nowhere else to go.

She was selfish, but selfless when it mattered.

He was selfless, but selfish when he was afraid.

She was a control freak.

He was the kind of man who should never be controlled.

She was bossy.

He was argumentative and always, always right.

She loved to prove him wrong.

He fell in love with her on their twelfth day.

She did too.

Because the truth is – they did believe in love.

They do.

No matter the lies that they tell each other, other people, or themselves.

And this was where their story began.

 

* * *

 

Clara Oswald did not believe in love.

She did not believe in fairytales; grew out of them, she’d say. She was not a romantic, she’d swear by it. But by God, she was good at pretending that she did, wasn’t she? It was part of the program, after all. You were not the child of two people who could not be more in love with each other and not know what it was supposed to be like, what it was supposed to look like. You didn’t pursue her father’s line of work without having an eye, an imagination, and a heart for that sort of thing.

It was either you had it or you didn’t – and hers was a heart made for falling in love.

Even if she didn’t believe it was real.  _Absolutely not._

Well… maybe she did.

Because she believed in love – she just didn’t want it to ever happen to her.

 

* * *

 

Gillechrìosd Jardine – otherwise known as  _The Doctor_  – did not believe in love.

It was a lie told to children so they could sleep better at night or so he’s read and saw in pictures, which was pretty much his only evidence that it even existed in some fashion, he would say. Bedtime stories, love was, or something like that; a template for what a happily ever after could look like; fuel for hope that he had long since given up on. What else was he supposed to base it on?

He grew up in an orphanage with nothing as his but a name left on a card that no one else could read or pronounce. Nobody knew where the title he eventually took as his name came from – a play at pretend that went on for too long, maybe, or that one time he saved his friend from drowning – but it stuck and it is what he has always been called since.

Like he’d done something once and now he had to keep doing it forever – like he’d made a promise before he knew what keeping it meant.

He broke that promise exactly once.

Still, he loved so much that it was enough to fill two hearts and then some – but he was always afraid.

He was afraid he might do the wrong thing when it mattered most of all. And he did once; now he paid for it.

So yes, he did believe in love – he just didn’t believe it could ever happen to him.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not working for free, Linda.”

This phone call just  _had_  to happen to today, didn’t it?

She was going to book her flight details today – as she had planned to do weeks and days before. Her itinerary was all set up in the first place. She knew which hotels to look into and what trains and cabs she needed to book. It was all planned out and she was going to do it for sure this time. But things had always come up – the Maitland kids needed babysitting, Coal Hill needed their favourite on-call substitute teacher, someone’s friend needed a new profile photo for Tinder and ' _hey, I have a friend who's got a camera and I could pull in a favour she owes me, it'll be fine_ ' would happen – and these vaguely defined things just kept on piling up.

But she was really going to do it today, she was; Linda just had to choose today of all days to call. It wasn't her fault, she'd cry out.

It wasn't.

“I’m not asking you to work for free but—”

Clara rolled her eyes and, in her heart of hearts, she was certain that Linda would be able to hear it on the other end of the line.

“Why can’t dad do it for you this time?”

“You know why. Don’t be such a child—”

“Oh, I’m  _sorry_  that letting what I want, for once in my life, be a part of the bloody equation—” she snapped. Two fingers rubbed circular patterns against her temple.

“And it’s Rose Tyler!” Linda interrupted. “I mentioned you to the mum, Jackie — she and I go way back —”

“Way, way back, I’d bet,” she muttered. Ignored, to no one's surprise.

“—and you two went to primary school together!”

“Not in the same year. She was a year older than I was. Never properly met her or her bloke so why is this part of the begging?”

“Because she’s my  _friend,_  Clara. Now apart from what you may think of me, ruining your life—”

“Which you did,” she mumbled again through grit teeth. Though whether her blasted stepmother actually heard her or not, she couldn't really care less. This was not especially reserved vindictiveness towards the blonde woman, after all, and this very rarely ever happened. Hardly ever did she have the chance to allow herself to be so petty and difficult (at least, intentionally so) and she had to admit that there was something satisfying in winding Linda up.

“—I’m asking you as a planner to photographer," Linda continued, " _Professionally._  I told them I'd take care of it since they've hardly made heads or tails of the whole deal in the first place and contacted me so late. Besides, a bit more money can only help your trip, right? It isn’t like you’ve booked anything yet—”

“Oi, I’ll have you kno—” But Linda didn't care. Linda never cared for her opinions or feelings, Clara would say.

“Please, Clara. I’m on my hands and knees here.”

“ _So_  not a mental image I needed right now.”

“ _Clara_ —” she warned.

“Isn’t like I’m the only wedding photographer in the business,” she reasoned.

“Yes, but you and your father are the only ones I trust to do this right.” (Translation:  _I already asked all the other ones I know so please don't be so damn difficult; I wouldn't ask you if I weren't this desperate._ )

“God, I hate myself for this,” Clara said under her breath. She sighed and let her head slack backwards as she groaned. “Fine. Fine! I’ll do it!”

As an afterthought, she added, “No discounts.”

“Ta, love," said the voice on the other end of the line. A few faint clicks on a keyboard later, the voice quipped again, "Sent you the email. I  _knew_  you wouldn’t let me down!”

“No, you didn’t,” Clara said to absolutely no one as Linda didn't wait for her stepdaughter to answer as she'd already agreed.

She glared at her phone for a good long second before the notification for the email popped onto the screen. She rolled her eyes at herself and let her head fall - towards her desk this time. Her forehead met the keyboard and her iMac's monitor sprung to life. The background photo was of a canopy of trees in the middle of autumn; leaves were as red and golden as crackling fire. In the middle was a married couple and the groom had his arm extended with a polaroid camera attached to the end as he took a photo of himself with his bride. Smiles, permanently frozen in that one, perfect moment.

Clara groaned and muttered to the only person in the room who was listening (otherwise known as herself), “God, yes you did. I’m  _such_  a bloody sap.”

With little choice but to acquiesce, she clicked on the appropriate app. Watched it bounce like it was mocking her will. She got to her email and, sure enough, there it was. Forwarded with nothing else in the body of the email but the need to know contents of what everyone else in the staff needed to know. It was a rush job by the looks of things with very little time to prepare. A week, at most, and that was the bare minimum for her to get all of her equipment and necessary staff in gear without going prematurely grey.

She clicked on the attached wedding invitation and skimmed over the initial, tasteless script at the top of the mock-invite.

_You are cordially invited to bear witness to the union of John Smith X and Rose Tyler…_

It took reading twice to realise the date that was put into the invitation and the prep list - and just how royally fucked over she'd become.

The wedding was in three days.

The keyboard met her forehead once again.

 

* * *

 

The Doctor stood unnoticed behind the noticeably arguing couple in front of him as he held a freshly washed apple in his hands. John Smith X - otherwise known as Tenth - pulled at his hair as his voice rose. His brother - adopted younger brother, technically speaking - was almost as red in the face as he had ever been. There was something of a smirk on his thin lips as he watched the little spat unfold before him.

“He’s already done it  _nine_  times, I don’t see why—” 

“Didn’t you say it was practically tradition at this point?” 

Rose, of course, expected nothing less, he knew. Good girl, Rose was. Kept Tenth honest and could dance around the man's wit like his labyrinthine though process were nothing but a child's chalk-drawn hopscotch map on the pavement. She kept her voice level with her arms crossed against her chest.

“Doesn’t mean I want him to do it at ours!”

“John—”

“No, Rose. Never.” He sounded firm. Like nothing in any known universe that would ever sway him.

“Then who else could be up for the job?” she challenged.

“Mickey?” was his first answer.

“You really trust Mickey,  _my ex_ , to do the best man speech at  _my_  wedding?”

“Your dad?”

“Are you  _serious_?”

“But—”

“But it’s your own fault for forgetting about this in the first place!” she argued.

“That's not my fault! What with your mum planning everything—”

“She’s hired a planner now,” Rose added but he wouldn't have it.

“—it isn’t like I had much room to think about it all!”

“John, we’re getting married in three days. You don’t have a best man. You said it yourself, the Doctor’s done it  _nine times_. You’re like his little brother and they call you  _Tenth_. It’s kind of fitting, especially with Evan’s one coming so soon.”

“She’s right,” the Doctor, upon hearing his name finally being uttered in the conversation, said as he took a bite out of his apple.

“Oh, shove off,” replied the younger man as he turned his head to sneer at him.

“I’ve already asked him,” she broke in before the two of them could have a proper go at it.

John could have broken his neck in the whiplash with how quickly his head spun back around to look at her.

“What?” He turned his head back to his brother as he pulled his hair back and kept his fingers firmly holding it there. “ _What?!_ ”

“She did,” the Doctor answered for her as he swallowed. He shrugged his shoulders and took another bite of his apple as he added, “Told her I would.”

“What?!” He turned around to face the older man now with his hands at his sides. Incredulous. Scandalised. “What’d you do  _that_  for?!”

“’Cause I knew you’d be pissed off as hell.”

The Doctor didn't even try to hold back his wolfish grin this time - so much so that it made his hurricane eyes gleam. Rose had to tuck in her lips to keep herself from laughing but as John was about to start off again with his tirade of denial, she spoke up again. For good measure, she held his arm back too.

“ _And_  he’s the most experienced at this. He won’t even have to think about it; won’t you, Doctor?”

“But  _Rose_ —!” John complained as he looked to her with his saddest eyes that were replied to in kind by her full lips that pressed together in a smile that said that the decision had been made long before she even asked him. He groaned and the next thing he knew was that his older brother had his arm around his shoulders

“Oh relax, Tenny; you’ll get  _frown lines_.” John only frowned even more. The Doctor was nearly blathering on in a sing-song Scottish brogue as he gestured about with his half eaten apple that he took another bite out of. “Now, come on! It’s your stag night!” 

“No, no, no. Don’t do that,” John pleaded but was only given that same wolfish grin as before.

“I’m your best man now, junior," he said as he manoeuvred to put on his sunglasses that had been neatly hung onto the lining of his shirt as he added, "and what I say goes.”

John turned his head back to his fiancée to give her a pained look, one that said that he would probably get back at her for this. Rose only grinned.

“You are  _so_  lucky I—” 

“Go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank Carrie (@centuriesuntold) for letting me borrow her headcanon of the Twelfth Doctor's human name and Valentina (@marshcapaldi) for her support with this fic. This is probably my fluffiest work in progress so far. Not my best, admittedly, but it's mostly set up so please do forgive me.
> 
> Still working on "touch me not" and "TARD(IZ)", though. Yay!
> 
> Feel free to yell at me on @owedbetter_ on Twitter or owedbetter on Tumblr, if you want. Or not. You do you, friend. Comments are appreciated. <3


	2. Chapter 2

" _Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty._ "

\- Don Pedro to Benedick,  _Much Ado About Nothing_  by William Shakespeare 

 

* * *

 

 

"No, no— don't put her  _there_ ," so said the unwanted rasp of flippant Scottish whinging that she has, unfortunately, grown all too accustomed to in just these last few hours.

Her shoulders were already stiffly kept — and anyone who knew what was best for them and knew  _her_  for any length of time would know well enough to keep away — and her teeth, her poor teeth, have been ground together too many times  _today_.

Clara Oswald has had a grand total of 12 hours of sleep in the last 72 hours.

As much as this certainly wasn't her first time, nor would it be her last (given the nature of the profession), the symptoms of sleep deprivation remained constant.

A headache was starting to build from the very centre of her forehead— a pulsing, crushing one that made her feel as if it were going to implode at any minute. She could feel the next twenty years of her life slipping away from her body like smoke. Quite frankly, she wouldn't be too surprised if by the next time she looked at a mirror, her dark brown hair would have shriveled to wisps of grey— or, worse, she'd have pulled all of it out too much in her frustration. 5'2" of Mother-bloody-Mercy, sans the cut throat but still on her feet even after she'd been dead for three whole days. Or she might as well have been.

What is dead may never die but will need copious amounts of caffeine. Cue the theme music.

Her mouth tasted of strong, dark coffee. Already, it felt dry. There lingered a feeling of hot, building acid in the pits of her stomach. She could feel sand in her socks — she made a mental note to never do another beach wedding ever again — as the thick heels of her boots sank into the ground under her weight. Her teeth ached and, not for the first time, she feared that they felt like they were just about to fall off but that may have just been the lack of sleep, the gratuitous caffeine intake, and the fact that she was seriously quasi-contemplating if she could actually get away with first degree murder.

Starting with the grey-haired stick insect who couldn't seem to mind his own bloody business.

She'd known that he would be trouble from the pre-ceremony shots alone and she thanked all her mother's stars that the groom's entourage took significantly less time than the bride's. Yet still, throughout the time that she took shots of the men, he was there. Half a mind, she'd had, to tell him that if he knew how to do her job so much better than she did then they ought to have hired him instead.

Even when she was working the ground during the ceremony, she could see him at the corner of her eye just leering at her whenever he thought he could get away with it. She'd bit her tongue instead of his and counted to ten. Twelve. More than once had the thought of just closing her eyes and thinking of England seeped in to her head but there were moments to immortalise.

No rest for the wicked; beggars can’t be choosy— artists included.

Clara, being a professional, swallowed it down as best she could— but, dear God forgive her, even  _she_  had her limits.

"I'm sorry?" she spat back at him. It was an insult wrapped in a forcibly polite apology. This was a skill that had taken years to perfect, of course.

Her assistants exchanged a look with one another. Shona grimaced as the man hovered behind her; she was holding the iPad, wirelessly tethered to Clara’s cameras. Psi, reflector at hand, and Saibra, with crossed arms and a utility belt for makeup wrapped around her waist, snickered at each other; both amusedly lamenting at what was soon to become of the unassuming Glaswegian if he didn’t stop pushing the Lancastrian’s buttons. Like they'd only seen it too many times before— and they have. Journey could not be bothered and gave nothing but a roll of her eyes, like a good secondary would, with her finger firmly on the trigger.

The bride, glowing in the miracle that was the light that only this kind of sunset could provide, tucked her full lips in and tried to hide her smile. The newly wed Rose Tyler-Smith, after all, could find no fault in this day. In fact, she was rather more charmed by the spectacle than she was put off by it. As if she had been expecting this all along. Clara could not, of course, say the same. She lacked the carefree privilege that bridal bliss provided as her dark eyes, usually so warm, might as well have been the weathered, jagged rocks where the sirens of old would rest, just waiting for their next ship to wreck with sailors to drown as she glared at the Scotsman.

"It's against the light," he gestured at the setting sun with his long, spindly fingers — all immovable object to her unstoppable force — and Clara could not help but roll her eyes at him for that. She grit her teeth, strained smile still in place.

"So can I see a bloody church by daylight, mister; what's your _point_?" Her primary camera hung on her neck as she cracked her fingers on both hands with her thumbs. She threw him a look, every ounce of exasperation quirking both her tended brows upward. Her cheeks ached.

"Doctor, you might want to let the woman do her job—" said the groom as he attempted to take his best man by the arm. This, of course, was Sisyphean as the Doctor only shrugged him off.

"Look at that, your exposure's all wrong; here, let me—" he countered.

Clara closed her eyes and held her breath.

"Oh, just stop it, for Pete's sake—!" John tried, again.

She bit her tongue. Tapped her feet on the soft, sabulous ground. She swallowed.

"I know what I'm doin—!"

" _OH, WILL THE PAIR OF YOU JUST SHUT UUUUUUUP?!_ "

A seagull squawked in the distance.

No one moved.

The only sound that broke the silence was the sound of waves, rolling sweetly and serenely. Truly, if framed just right, it was a picture perfect moment. And anyone who knew the Doctor would pay good money to have that face of his, all wide owlish eyes, blinking at the tiny woman who raised her voice at him with all the command of a thousand boarding school headmistresses.

Her breaths came in heavily as she looked towards the heavens. She raised a hand to her head—her thumb against her temple, fingers rubbing her forehead. The divine silence lasted and when she found no one had dared to dispute her command, she composed herself. Clara spoke with a clear, concise authority amongst the lot of them as the sun, ever uncaring for the frivolities of human patience (and breaking of it, thereof), still continued to set at thousands of miles per hour.

"Could you _please_ just let the  _professionally hired_  photographer among the lot of you to actually do her bloody job in peace? Especially  _you_ —" she glared at the Doctor, hiding none of her vindictive bite as she did, to which the look he gave her in return could only be described as utterly flabbergasted "—shut it with the backseat directing! I am  _serious_. If someone wanted your  _blasted_  opinion, they would've bloody asked for it! Not everyone is as in love with the sound of your own voice as _you_ seem to be.

“Okay?” she looked all around her, her wide eyes sparing no one in attendance though her rebuke was meant for one person in particular. When no one contested, she let out a long, slow exhale. She put her smile back on as if the earlier outburst had never happened, camera in hand and hid her ever-so wide face behind it.

"Rose, stay right there. You're golden," she cried out to the bride who had not moved from the pose she’d directed. The bride held her head high, nose towards the heavens, with her full lips just that side of parted. The camera clicks followed in quick succession. Clara’s commanded silence remained.

" _Beauuuutiful!_ We're done with those ones. Touch up for the bride and groom, Saibra! Psi, gather the rest of the entourage now. Quickly! Before the tide washes in! Journey, new battery. Mark III. Shona, be a love. Refill."

Like clockwork, her team moved and dashed about without needing to be instructed twice. Shona did not actually need to get her a refill but it would be the only plausible way to get her out of the best man’s grip for a while yet.

The Doctor stared at her with unblinking eyes. There was a ferocity there, an intensity that was then hyper-focused on her. She did not cower from it; on the contrary, she responded in kind. He eyed her from head to toe, she saw the way his eyes traveled as he assessed her person, all until Psi collected him and he had to break away first.

Clara couldn’t help the hint of a smirk on her face as he ducked away and was called to leave; it felt only too much like winning.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t speak to her for the remainder of the shoot— happy to ignore her for a while and she regarded him only as a wedding photographer would notice the best man, which was only when she needed to— during his speech, of course, which he so diligently gave.

Funny and serious at the same time, a dry sort of wit and humour about him with his anecdotes that were so naturally given with timing so perfect; he had the whole room bursting with laughter, despite the simplicity of it all and the brevity of his punch lines.

The bride and groom looked to him with fondness, hands held, and permanent grins etched on their faces. Clara had several shots long shots of them like that—portrait, them at the bottom-most part of the rule of thirds, with the starlit sky and the evening-coloured sea just behind them. It was a brilliant shot, if she did say so herself.

All the while, the Doctor gave his speech, holding cards that he clearly did not need. He wasn’t sugarcoated. He gave heartfelt without frivolous flourish or copied cliché, which was a nice change from all the ones she’d heard before.

He wouldn’t be able to see her smile or laugh behind her cameras but she did sometimes, though she didn’t know the couple quite as well as she would have now liked to. He was funny, she couldn’t quite help herself. And it was dark when night fell and there was nothing else to light them but the luau lights and torches that were strewn about the reception area—she doubted he could see her. That was the role of the photographer, after all; an omnipresent shadow, capturing every candid moment (ever so fleeting, in retrospect, but the emotion so perfectly preserved) in a way only an artist can.

There was dancing after that, of course, around the then-massive bonfire with the band of acoustic guitars strumming about as people ate and celebrated and laughed as if tomorrow would never come. She took photos of the details – wedding rings bathed in the light of bonfires with the glass sea reflecting the refracted light of the stars and moon above it as the backdrop; the cake and buffet, for the caterer’s sake – and the people all around. She and her team did their jobs, as was expected, and Clara could say that despite the pressures of the planning being so last minute—this was a good one to remember.

Even if it didn’t last, like most ones she’d ever known.

Whether it was by broken promises or politics or death or the ever uncaring circumstances of the cosmos, it was a constant. This, she knew.

Everything always ends.

Even love.

 _Especially_ love.

 

* * *

 

"Have you backed your cards yet?" came the dry, hoarse burr that, if she were honest with herself, she’d been expecting since her humbling of him just a few hours prior.

If she were _really_ honest (and maybe just a tiny bit up herself), she would say that he sounded even shy just about then. Apologetic, even. It was almost adorable.

"I'm sorry?" she echoed, though she was in a significantly better mood than she had been.

The stars above them twinkled against the black canvas of sweet evening sky. There wasn’t a cloud in attendance—not a single threat of storm or shadow. There were more stars out here than there would have been all the way back in the city.

There were small bonfires all around this beach now where guests settled on blankets; they looked up, serenaded by the soft swish of sea against the shoreline and the strumming of the few guitarists who were left. Soon, they would have to retire back to the hotels. Some might copulate on the sand – Clara would have been very surprised come morning if there wasn’t at least one couple amongst present company that wouldn’t, really – or in shared hotel rooms, as was what happened in weddings.

She really had been to too many of them by now.

It was quieter now and the party was just about to die down. She’d already sent Journey and Shona back to their rooms to start on the prep for post-production (couples these days demanded at least two or three shots to be ready for Instagram purposes by the time they settled into bed that same night; Clara liked to be prepared) while the other two were, well—she didn’t have a thought about couples copulating during weddings for nothing.

What they did off hours was entirely their business.

All the while, she was not completely off the clock just yet. She was just about dead tired after being on her high-heeled feet for over ten hours straight (she would joke that there was far, far too much blood in her caffeine stream at this point). However, she still found her attention captured by one last memory for the night.

"Your memory cards," he amended.

Clara turned to look at him only to see that he was holding a glass in his hand and he was holding it out to her. Champagne. He had another at hand and it was for himself, she supposed. She eyed him from head to toe – mirroring what he had done to her. He raised his brows in echoed retaliation.

"You are _seriously_ getting on my nerves now, mister, did you know?" she said, though spoken with a sweetness that can only come when spoken with a smile. And she _was_ smiling. Playful, practically.

He didn't take back the offer; she accepted.

It was her first glass of anything that wasn’t coffee or Redbull or water all day. In hindsight, accepting a drink from a strange man she’d just loudly chastised at a wedding wasn’t, exactly, the smartest thing to do—but she was tired and a gut instinct besides told her that this man would be the last man who would try anything funny with her. Besides—her team was expecting her back in half an hour and Journey would probably kill him if he did (and, no, that wasn’t a metaphor).

She was fine, she told herself. _She’ll be fine._

"The photographer at the last wedding I'd attended lost half his drives. Corrupted RAW files, the lot. Didn't even salvage the first kiss," he said, shrugging his shoulders. He couldn’t quite look at her then.

Definitely shy, she thought, which was sweet; he didn’t seem the type to be shy.

"Ooh, the money shot," she said. Her bottom lip was pressed against the rim of the glass and the look she gave him could only be described as coy. Flirtatious. He swallowed and took another drink of the bubbly. She smiled again, shrugged her shoulders, and continued with an air of nonchalance. "That happens. We're only human, you know. Anyway, that's what the videographer's for. Bit of magic in Lightroom on a decent screenshot and they're good."

"They didn't have a videographer."

"That's _usually_ part of the package," she told him, brows furrowed.

"Bride's family handled it." He was staring rather intently at his champagne glass. "Well— the bride's stepmother."

"Why the hell would they get the bride's  _stepmother_  to do anything?" she asked, grinning up at him now. She could see a hint of a smile on those thin lips of his that he was trying to suppress and she made it her mission now to make him smile for her at least once.

"Bride's dad insisted,” he answered after he cleared his throat to retain his composure. “To help make her feel like she's part of the family, apparently."

Clara scoffed. " _Rubbish._ "

"Just telling you what happened," he said and gave her a pointed look. Again, never did she cower away from it and met him look for look. "She was in charge of the documentation. Things you can't really get wrong since it's just hiring a videographer and photographer—"

"'Cause we're  _so_  easy to come by, yeah?" She raised a defiant brow.

"Any _twelve-year-old_ can own a DSLR these days—" he sneered but she cut him off.

"A fancy, expensive camera bought with daddy's money does _not_ a wedding photographer make, mister."

There was that look again from him. Almost lost, almost bewildered, and definitely stunned. _Two-nil._

"Anyway, go on,” she urged, smile on her face still withstanding. “How come there was no videographer?"

"Annalise — Martha’s stepmother — thought that photographer and videographer meant the same thing."

"Dear God," Clara laughed and shook her head. "Nobody thought to check up on that?"

"They did. She booked a proper photographer with editorial spreads in magazines and everything—"

She laughed again, champagne sloshing in the glass, and there were almost tears in her eyes. Honestly, it would probably not have been as funny as it was if she weren’t as exhausted as she was, but the thought of what he was saying sounded so ridiculous that it was next to impossible to refrain from laughing. And he spoke with such an insistent honesty that it had to be true, which endeared him to her all the more— though that, she will not admit.

"It was very posh and all,” he continued, “but she didn't think to hire the team's videographer as well."

"Well thank your lucky stars you've got a proper team for this one. And at last minute, no less. Only a photographer with a _death wish_ would’ve taken a job this rushed."

“And do _you_ have one?”

“Do I have what?”

“A death wish.”

“Yeah,” she said, suddenly solemn. She looked away. He was just about to apologise for bringing it up when she shrugged and added, “She’s called _Linda._ ”

The Doctor choked back a laugh and pursed his lips just to keep it in. She snuck a glance up at him just to witness it and she grinned as she took another sip of her champagne. _Three-nil._

"I just didn't want to mess things up for Sandshoes and Rose is all."

“How could you mess anything up? Mrs Tyler’s the one who hired us.”

“Who do you think managed to get her to change her mind to convince her that she did, actually, need the help?”

“You like cutting it close, do you?”

“I wasn’t going to get involved,” he said. He licked his lips. “But it’s Rose,” he added by way of explanation, continuing with, “John too, I suppose, but there’s no accounting for taste, poor lass.”

She laughed again. It was a tittered _giggle_ , even, stars help her. He looked quite pleased with himself for that.

Silence settled upon the unlikely pair — a companionable silence — before he asked again, "So  _have_  you backed up your cards?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "Yes, I've backed up my bloody cards. And I've got backups for the backups; and backups for _those_ as well. I  _am_  a professional, mister...?"

"Doctor."

"I caught that, yeah, but I— no name that goes along with the title?”

“The title _is_ my name. I’m the Doctor.”

“Doctor _who_?”

He shrugged.

“Just the Doctor.”

“Okay then. I’m, uh— Clara. Just Clara Oswald, mind. No titles, prefixes, or determiners."

"Not even a Ms or Mrs?"

"Down, boy." The tip of her tongue made an appearance as it sat between her teeth as she grinned up at him. Even in the low light, she would know the look of a warm, rising blush anywhere.

"I didn't mean it like tha—"

"Yeah, you did," she said as she shook her head. She reached for a business card in a sleeve attached to one of her cameras and handed it to him. He pocketed it without question.

"It's rather sweet of you, actually. Irritating as hell, yes... but sort of sweet," she told him. She wasn’t looking at him then but at the distance, towards the pinpricks that were the bonfires that were starting to dim down—matching the shining stars above them. He was looking at her but Clara raised her camera to take a few photos of the sight before she added, "To care so much about them. In your own way. Must be nerve-wrecking."

"What is?"

"The whole best man— ... ing ... thing. Once in a lifetime gig, right?"

"I wish." She could practically _hear_ him roll his eyes. His tone made her whip her head back up to look at him again.

"Meaning?" she pressed.

"It's my tenth time."

"Tenth wedding to go to?"

"Tenth time with the best man-ing thing, as you said."

"The  _tenth_  time? _Christ_ ," she was looking up at him with wide eyes. Mouth, agape. "Didn't peg you as mister popular."

He looked away, a hand reaching to scratch the nape of his neck. Almost ashamed. A beat followed.

"Kind of do, now," she added. Wistful. The Doctor turned his head back down towards her so swiftly that he might have given himself whiplash. She took the rest of the champagne in one go and handed him back the glass. "Anyway… thanks for the drink."

Clara offered him one last smile before she started to walk away but the Doctor spoke up.

"That photo—"

"Hmm?" she turned her head. “Which one?”

"The one from earlier, I— I saw the preview in your assistant's iPad."

"So?"

"The framing's all wrong and the aperture was too high so why were you—"

"I wasn't _trying_ to do a silhouette, Doctor, if that's what you're thinking," she told him, exhausted and worn but smiling now despite the exasperation. "It was an MCU of her, yeah? I've got one of him just a few hours ago, before the ceremony. ELS. Slightly overexposed but the spot was more or less the same. It'll be a double exposure with him facing one way; her, the other. Desaturated to the point of _almost_ black and white, retaining the magic light that comes with sunsets and sunrises. Primarily white backdrop. Blown up. Printed on aluminium. It's romantic. It'll make a great living room piece."

He blinked at her. She gave him one last tired smile.

"I  _do_  know what I'm doing, you know," she chided gently.

"I think you're probably an amazing photographer," he admitted, hiding none of his awe.

"I think I'd better be." They looked at each other for a moment. A poignant one, with neither of them really knowing what to say. She pressed her lips together and nodded. "I'll see you around, Doctor."

Clara walked away and she did not look back. The Doctor watched her go and above her, a falling star shot across the sky, as her figure was absorbed by both darkness and distance.

Under no one’s lens, he smiled and said to no one:

" _If I'm lucky."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick guide for the terms and procedures used here for those who aren’t as well versed with professional photography! (These are mostly based on personal experiences.)
> 
> MCU means Medium Close Up and ELS stands for Extreme Long Shot. Yes, there are other acceptable terms for these shots but these are the terms I went by in my own shoots. Back in my photographer days, at least. Also, double exposures are super neat. Google them if you don’t know what they are. They’re bloody beautiful.
> 
> A secondary photographer, I used Journey for this, is a bit like a protégée. (Sometimes, however, they’re just a second pair of hands with one of the primary’s spare cameras.) They’re there for the detail shots in most weddings these days like reactions from family members during the first kiss or during the vows and whathaveyou. The primary’s job is to focus on the bride and groom. 
> 
> True enough that a regular photographer’s entourage isn’t this packed – as assistants and extra gear cost a lot of money – but as someone who has done this before, and as someone who is almost as much of a control freak as Clara is, I would have killed for this much help so please do allow me to live vicariously through Clara.


	3. Chapter 3

_“After the wave of pain, you will turn to her_  
_and, in an instant, change the universe_  
 _to a sky you were glad you came outside to see._ ”

Excerpt from ‘ _Stargazing’_ by Glyn Maxwell

 

* * *

 

What the hell was the point of an _instagram_ anyway?

The Doctor was not the type of man who scrolled through social media feeds for hours and hours on end just to see the mindless drivel of pudding brain after pudding brain. A WiFi soup of a world filled with countless souls screaming for help or just plainly screaming. Everyone was so intent to let everyone else know what they were doing at every minute of every day—every thought is scrutinized, every mundane meal is photographically documented, every word must fit to a brand.

He didn’t have the patience for it.

So, if anyone who knew him were to be asked, “ _What would the Doctor be doing on the night of one of his little brothers’ weddings?_ ” the answer would not be scrolling through social media feeds for hours and hours. He was not the sentimental type, they would say with a shrug and a smile that bordered on condescending.

But here he was—on his phone, endlessly scrolling.

Rose Tyler-Smith’s Facebook profile was, gratefully, not private.

It was a hunch, as he tended to do, and he was rewarded for it. When Clara left him on his own again at the beach, he’d seen and heard from a few attendants, just a few minutes later, that there were already a few photos up of the wedding somewhere or another. They had been giggling and sighing together, assembling to clusters surrounding a single mobile device with a tenacity that would shame the efficiency of parliament (which, to be perfectly fair, wasn’t that too difficult a feat). So check, he did.

The very first thing on Rose’s profile was a photo of her with her new husband as they rushed down the aisle. Her hand in John’s as grains of rice and flower petals – pink and red rose petals, thank you very much – rained down upon them as their friends and family looked on. Everyone was smiling; he noted— even him in the corner there, out of focus and almost trying not to be seen at all, and he knew that his was a smile he’d tried to repress.

Don’t ask him why— he’d long since forgotten the reason.

None, however, had a brighter smile than Rose Tyler-Smith herself. Her free hand was in her tousled, golden hair as she tried to keep her tiara in place. Eyes shut tight, head thrown back, and grinning open mouth in pure, unadulterated glee. John had his head turned to her, grinning from ear to ear, as he pulled her along—there were lines at the corner of his eyes, the Doctor would have teased. Smile lines.

‘ _You’d know, wouldn’t you, old man?_ ’ he could hear John bark so clearly in the back of his head. ‘ _You’ve got lines enough to spare! Ha!_ ’ The Doctor scoffed at the imagined quip and rolled his eyes. In the comfort of his own solitude, he allowed himself to smirk freely.

It was a beautiful photograph. Even an amateur would agree—the use of colours, oh that brilliant purple and orange sky with the sweet dark, dusky broke blue of the serene ocean behind this scene so bathed in soft but brilliant holy sunset gold; the expert framing that focused on the bride and groom with the subtly tasteful aperture that made the depth of field just the right kind of blurry; and the artful use of a rule of thirds. The caption sat right above the photograph; a single word: _Finally._

The Doctor found himself grinning alone at the sight of it.

The photo itself was shared from instagram, he noticed, and he pressed the link. The evidently professional photo stood out among her feed. One of the latest photographs was a self-taken photograph – the bride and groom sharing a kiss in front of the bright orange bonfire, both of them with eyes closed and a smile on their lips, presumably just a few minutes ago – and the others were of more or less the same quality. There were photographs of shoes – a rather abysmal photo filter over it that made the white balance look terribly beige – from a few days ago. There was a photograph of champagne glasses and appetizers and one of a plate of chips for some reason; several were of Rose and her friends at her hen night, most of her feed included outings with John, and of all the rest were photos of her wearing expensive dresses that she never bought while inside of dressing rooms.

He looked at the photo from the wedding again and when he tapped it again, a name popped up from the bottom right corner. Clara Oswald, the tag read, and it was pointing near her watermark at the bottom right of the page. Subtle that it never once detracted from the photograph but notably visible enough that anyone could read it. He pressed at her name and he was taken to her instagram feed instead.

The quote “ _It is such a happiness when good people get together,_ ” was near her name.

Her feed was almost exclusively about her business; which is to say that it was littered with dozens of beautifully romantic photographs. Some were in cities – bride and groom artfully juxtaposed with the angles of brightly lit buildings – some were in gardens or hills, decorated by canopies of lush, green trees with brides and grooms bathed in sweet, glorious morning light. There were close ups of brides, faces half-hidden with their veils, as they smiled and looked at their blossoming bouquets. There was a photograph of a couple – the angle, an extreme long shot with the couple right in the middle – and they held hands as they looked up into the impossibly starlit sky.

Every photo was breathtaking in its own right. Not all of them were of couples – some had newborn children, some were of bridesmaids in a row all laughing together, others were of food or the rings, and there was the odd photograph of scenery here and there. There wasn’t a single photograph of her, he thought but absolutely did not notice. He’d reached the end of her feed when he came to that conclusion.

The Doctor reached for his pocket and felt for the business card she’d given him earlier that night. It was a simple card – cream in colour and tastefully embossed with typography of her watermark. _Clara Oswald Photography_ , it read, with her name in delicate cursive while ‘ _photography_ ’ rest underneath in sans serif, small caps. A small vector image of a red maple leaf being blown away lined the very bottom of the watermark. At the back of the card were her contact details—as well as the address to her studio.

He looked at the card for a good long while and, if anyone asked, no.

He absolutely wasn’t smiling.

 

* * *

 

It has been four days since the wedding and the Doctor just so happened to find himself on the street were her studio office was located.

It wasn’t that difficult, this was one of the busiest streets in fashionable Shoreditch; it was purely by happenstance that he found himself where he was right then and there. He might as well check up on the photographs from Rose and John’s wedding, right? When he considered that another one of his brothers was thinking of hiring her services (if the comments on Rose’s wedding photograph were anything to go by) he’d reason that he was only doing his brotherly duty to ensure that they would get the best possible service.

People only get one wedding, right?

_Well…_

There was a bakery next to her studio office—one that sold fancy, decorated biscuits in equally as fancy tins. There were tables and chairs, occupied by trendy young pudding brains, who were laughing with one another or some sort. There were a few odd stares as he passed by but he simply adjusted his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose whenever he felt like someone was looking (he adjusted his sunglasses a lot).

He supposed he must have looked a bit out of place, what with his midnight green plaid trousers and his hoodie and his curly, unkempt, almost silver but very definitely still brown hair (thank you very much), but he wasn’t exactly the type to care too much. He did, however, find himself thinking about how he might have looked just then and there, when he did find himself at the front of Clara’s studio office.

The Doctor did not have the faintest clue as to why that was.

Quiet tintinnabulation greeted him as he entered; the small bell almost immediately then slowed to silent stillness. The space was far less than he would have expected from the outside as there were but only padded sofa and a receptionist’s desk. There were framed photographs of weddings all around. There was, however, a beaded curtain where light bled through and he could only assume there was more of the studio office behind it.

A woman was sat by the desk and her head shot up from her computer when he came in. She was not Clara, he noticed, for this one (though the two women were of a similar frame) had bobbed, fine blonde hair. His brows furrowed and, for a moment, he thought he might be at the wrong place.

 “I know you,” said Not Clara. “You were at the Tyler-Smith wedding. The one who got a right old bollocking from the boss.”

He gestured to himself, a hand against his chest, and his brows rose as he looked at her. She could not quite return his gaze as they darted from this way and that, the way an unprepared student who hadn’t done their homework might when all the attention of the terror teacher was suddenly upon them.

“You’re not Clara,” he said. “Who are _you_?”

It was almost accusatory. _How dare you not be Clara in a studio that’s supposed to be Clara’s?_

“Shona McCullough. Receptionist. See, I’ve got a name plate and everything. Look!”

The woman called Shona McCullough raised the name plate that was, indeed, by the desk and raised it to him with both hands. She set it back down with a flourish, rather pleased with herself for being right, but he was still frowning. He bit and pulled at the dry skin of his lower lip with his teeth.

“I’m looking for the, uh—woman in charge.”

“She’s working on a set at the back. She don’t like to be disturbed when she’s in the zone, you know what I mean?” That last sentence, she whispered with her hand gesturing near her mouth in the universal language that meant that what she’d just said was a secret. She shrugged her shoulders and leaned back against her chair. “Besides, what’d you want with her anyway?”

“The piece she’d promised, the blown up double exposure print she’d said and I’d—”

“Yeah, I know that one,” Shona interrupted. She pressed a few keys on the keyboard and scrutinized the tables she’d pulled up on the screen. The Doctor craned his neck to try and see more of what was behind the beaded curtain and found himself slow in his approach to find out. Into the lions’ den, as it were. Shona kept going on, “Aluminium prints take about a week to process and the wedding wasn’t more than four days ago.”

“There haven’t been any updates.”

“We gave you a date-by-date timetable of when to expect everything. Updates typically come if the thing’ll be late. And Clara’s _never_ late.”

“Well, I want to be sure—” He had a hand on the beaded curtain and the soft rustle brought Shona back to the present.

“Oi oi, you’re not allowed back there—!” she pushed her chair from her desk, wheels rolling, and he was just about to argue some more with her and assert himself as an Always Right-type of customer when Clara strode through the curtain herself and looked up at the Doctor, hands on her hips.

Her short hair was tied up into a ponytail but a few stands still framed her wide face. She wore a mustard-coloured jumper, a pinafore dress, tights, and thick clever socks that had cupcakes on them. Her high heeled boots were beneath her desk but even at her plainest 5’2”, she commanded a room with natural ease.

“Do you get off on making a fuss about wedding photos that aren’t yours?” she raised a brow up at him and she certainly sounded cross—but it was the grin on her lips that lit up her tired eyes that caught him unawares.

If he didn’t know any better, he would say she was rather pleased to see him. Not that she would be.

“I don’t—” he started but Clara cut him off and turned to Not Clara. (He’d deleted her name from his memory already.)

“Shona, we’ve run out of beans for the coffee maker.”

“Soy flat white?” She did not quite sound too sure of herself when she asked but Clara only smiled.

“Love you—hang on,” Clara turned to the Doctor. “You staying?”

He stared at her and blinked twice. He pointed to himself.

“Yeah. You.”

He blinked again.

“How’d you take it?”

He frowned.

“Your _coffee_ , Doctor.”

“Black,” he grumbled under the weight of her stare. She did not flinch. “Eight sugars.”

Clara turned back to Shona and the other woman nodded. “And get yourself something too, yeah?”

“You’re… gonna reimburse me, right?” Shona could not quite decide who she was going to look at and her eyes went from left to right and back again as if she were watching a rather intense tennis match.

“Don’t I always?”

With that, Shona left the office with her purse and the Doctor was left standing there, suddenly quite unsure of how he’d found himself in Clara’s studio office in the first place. She rolled her eyes and smiled, dimples cutting right in the middle of her cheeks. She cocked her head and made her way past the beaded curtains.

“Well come in, if you’re going to be insufferable might as well do it when I’m sat down and comfortable.”

He followed.

The scene that greeted him next met, more or less, his expectations of what her studio office looked like in his mind’s eye.

The far centre of the room had a plain white backdrop. The black roll atop it suggested that she had other prints. There were two soft boxes standing together in the middle of it, their cords neatly rolled at the feet. There were three black boxes and two circular reflectors by the backdrop as well; he guessed this was where Clara kept most of her other gear. While the wall surrounding the backdrop was as plain and white as plain and white could be—the other walls told more about Clara herself.

The right side was littered with frame after frame after frame of wedding photos, pre-nuptial photos, and even a few editorial portraits and headshots. Again, there were none with Clara. They were tastefully arranged and of different sizes. The frames were classic, elegant silver steel. It was quite aesthetically pleasing, architecturally speaking.

The left side of her studio was lined with bookshelves. Some shelves contained colour coded photo albums and colour swatches, and displayed a few smaller picture frames. These photos, however, were mostly polaroids and, sure enough, there was a polaroid camera folded into itself next to one of the frames, a polaroid photo of a man sitting on a rocking chair with a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, tucked in his embrace. (Her husband? Did she have a daughter? He saw no ring on her finger but he didn’t quite know how to ask.) There was assorted bric-a-brac that was littered about the shelves that made it feel just that much more personal.

On the floor by the bookshelves were beanbags and an electric guitar with a Magpie amplifier that was settled beneath it. A fireman’s pole stood erect by the beanbags and when he looked up, there was a retractable ladder near what he supposed was the entrance to the second floor. The wall right in front of the backdrop had two tables – a work table set up with a large iMac monitor (where he saw dozens of tiny thumbnails of photos from Rose and John’s wedding, uploaded onto Adobe Lightroom), a Canon 5D Mark III, and a hard drive – and the table next to it was a vanity table with three mirrors, framed with large Hollywood lights, and there was a closed Macbook Air atop it next to a encased makeup pink, orange, and purple makeup brushes.

“You play?” he gestured with his head as he pocketed his hands in his trousers. The Doctor wanted to reach out for it almost at first sight. It was a Yamaha SGV800, by the looks of it. Black. Rock and roll worn. It was practically calling out to him.

“What?” she asked as she twisted her large spinning office chair to face him and saw was he was talking about. “Oh _that_. Yeah, no. I wish.” She double clicked at a photograph on her screen – a middle shot of Rose smiling, John smiling as he stood behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist. Clara continued, “ _Barter._ I’ve got a pre-nup shoot scheduled in two weeks and they couldn’t afford my rates. Tim Lunn, the groom, he asked if he could give me that instead.”

“Why would you take it if you can’t even play?”

“’Cause I can,” she answered. Nonchalant as you like and shrugged her shoulders. She increased the photograph’s contrast levels ever just so and adjusted the white balance with but a few quick clicks of her mouse. She spun herself around with an air of almost theatric affectation. “So! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The print, the aluminium one. You said—” Her laugh made him swallow the rest of his sentence whole.

“You’ve got some right old cheek in you if you’re complaining before the actual bride and groom do.”

“Well, what if you mess it up and they end up—” She laughed again.

“God, pity the woman who marries you,” she rest the weight of her head against the palm of her hand, her elbow propped up against the armrest of her spinning chair. “Or man. Y’know. I’m not judging.”

The Doctor stared at her, mouth slightly agape much like the first time she’d ever admonished him. He blinked and, to be honest, he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands so he kept them firmly in his pockets. Her eyes softened as she looked up at him; her smile, kind without being patronising. She rolled her eyes as she sighed.

“Doctor, in my eleven years in this business, I have never received a single complaint from an actual client because I _always_ deliver. Sit _down_.”

He did as he was told and sunk onto the nearest bean bag. He picked up the guitar and held it in his hands. Clara gave no objection so he felt no need to ask for permission outright; she turned back around and worked on processing another photograph. He was inspecting the strings, its neck expertly held in his hands, and gave it a soft strum, its quiet echo reverberating across the room.

“Didn’t know you could be a photographer at eleven years old,” he finally said.

“I’m _twenty nine_ , you idiot,” she chided. She was still editing photos as she talked to him. He crawled over to the nearest socket to plug the amplifier in. There were three red guitar picks by the shelves and he picked one up. He adjusted the knobs just so as she kept clicking away at her work.

After a moment, she spoke up again, “Why are you so fussed about this anyway? I’ve delivered on the initial soft copies and Mr and Mrs Smith will have their book, their framed prints, the rest of the soft copies, _and_ their backups besides by early Monday morning even if I have to courier it myself. It’s only _Wednesday_.”

“Wanted to check,” he answered, not looking up at her. “Helps to be thorough.”

“Helps who?” He could _hear_ the self-assured grin on her face that he had to look up at see it for himself. Sure enough, she had her head turned to him just to grin cheekily at him. His neck grew warm.

“Just—get back to your work. I’ll just—be here.”

“You could just say you wanted to see me, you know,” she pointed out.

He scoffed. He didn’t dare look up at her this time. “Don’t you have a deadline to meet?”

“So you’re supervising my progress?”

“Just go back to work, Clara.”

She shook her head and turned back to her monitor.

Why she let him inside her studio in the first place, she had no idea.

But she’d heard the Scottish bleating from the other side of the wall and she’d just decided to spare Shona the grief of having to deal with his complaining but how she ended up inviting him in and letting him sit on one of her bean bags while she worked? There was no real rhyme or reason to the madness but the company was rather comforting. One might think silences between strangers would have some air of stale stagnant awkwardness in the air but his presence just behind her, as he fiddled with the guitar, made the room feel that much warmer.

The Doctor took to tuning the guitar and she paid it no real mind, simply letting it be background noise as she worked. He then started playing five notes. Five notes in quick, familiar succession. She stopped was she was doing but said nothing of it. Clara held her breath and waited. He played the five notes again—the last note prolonged to three counts.

Then came the swift eight count measure that was the beginning of _Pretty Woman_ and she turned her chair around to face him again. She was biting her bottom lip as she grinned.

“Have something to say?”

“I’m trying to tune it!” he scowled at her, all the while immediately beginning to play something else instead. His fingers found the frets to _Starman_ without incident or remark from Clara but she was smiling and, for some reason, he wanted to keep her smiling exactly like that. All the time.

He played the song wordlessly and lay back upon the comfortable and almost unbearably soft bean bag. Shona chose then to return and handed Clara her coffee. His own coffee was placed by the floor next to him and she gave but a polite little smile with lips tightly pressed together. She’d asked if she could get Clara anything else and when her boss had no errands for her to run right then, she went back to her receptionist’s desk – with a name plate and everything! – up front.

As he played, he took to observing her shelves more intently. There were books that were scattered around there as well. _Summer Falls by Amelia Williams_ , he recognized, stood out in bright yellow with _The Angel’s Kiss by Melody Malone_ right next to it. There was also an annotated and uncensored edition of _The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde_ as well as three different poetry collections by Wislawa Syzmborska. An entire square of shelf was dedicated, so it seemed, to Jane Austen – _Emma_ was the most worn out of any of the titles, if the state of the book’s spine was anything to go by; she even had a copy of _Sanditon_. The only other book that resembled its state was a small edition of _Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations._

There were a few non-fiction books in her collection as well. He rose from where he sat, still absentmindedly playing the song, and took to further inspecting her shelves.

Clara had travel books on display – as he quickly skimmed, he saw books about Sydney, Singapore, Venice, The Pyramids, and Great Traditions. There was an old book that read _101 Places to See_ on one of the farthest corners, coupled together with an Encyclopedia of World Facts. Her copy of _Augustus John: A New Biography by Michael Holroyd_ had a sticky note that said “ _Dinosaurs in London_ ” for reasons that he could not quite fathom. There was a brand new book, its lilac binding still wrapped in plastic, called _Natural Solutions to Menopause: How to Stay Healthy Before, During, and After Menopause by Marilyn Glenville, PhD_ (a well-meaning gift [probably] from her step mother, not that he knew or would ask), that rest next to a copy of _Milton: Poet, Pamphleteer, and Patriot by Anna Beer_.

When his song finished, he set the guitar down, turned the amplifier off, and picked up the coffee that Shona had placed for him, so he could go to the other side of the room and look at the other photographs she had on display. Almost all of them had the same watermark that bore Clara’s name but some of them had a different one, though it was of a remarkably similar pattern. _David James Oswald Photography_ , it read. He didn’t notice that she’d risen from her chair and stood next to him, arms crossed against her chest as she looked at the photos with him. He gestured to one of them and frowned.

“Why isn’t your husband helping you with this, then?” his voice, subdued.

He shouldn’t have come here, he was beginning to realise.

He hadn’t known that she was—

Her too wide eyes looked at him with all the incredulity they could muster. For the first time in the two times that he’s known her, she looked genuinely puzzled.

 “I’m sorry?”

“He isn’t the one with the thing on his head, right? Half shaved head with more hair gel than a prepubescent teenage boy?”

“ _Psi?_ ” she said after a moment and worked out who he was talking about. “God, no, wait— he’s not my husband, where’d you come up with—what makes you think I’m bloody _married_?!”

“You’re not _David James,_ are you? And there’s a photo right there with a man and a baby, so—”

“That’s _me_ ,” she said, punching his arm playfully. She shoulders relaxed. “David James Oswald is my _father._ ”

The Doctor licked his lips and nodded, gritting his teeth to stop from smiling.

Maybe coming here wasn’t a bad idea after all.

He quickly coughed out, “And yer mam’s a wedding planner? Have you got some sort of—”

“She’s not my mother,” she said quickly. “Linda’s dad’s second wife.”

Clara walked back to her desk post-haste and started clicking. He thought he’d said something wrong – treaded on a subject that was not quite material for a second day of knowing each other – but she was minimising the active windows and when he saw what she was really doing, he saw her desktop photo.

The autumn trees that arched around the married couple in the middle, the floor littered with the same gold and russet leaves—her parents, he thought, as her resemblance to them was uncanny.

“This is my mum right here,” she said, pointing to the bride.

“She was a baker. Was right popular with parties, weddings especially. One day, it was in autumn, she was trying to load up her car with a cake for a client when my dad came stumbling in from ‘round a corner. He was getting attacked by a leaf.”

Clara tucked her legs up and hugged her knees to her chest. When the Doctor came up behind her, crouched and leaned in to get a closer look at the photo as he listened to her story, she didn’t flinch away. He set down his coffee cup right next to hers and let his hand rest against the table for balance. He was close enough that she could smell him—coffee and fresh laundry. A few commands on her keyboard later, she managed to pull up a folder of different photos of her parents, she found that once she started telling her parents’ story—she just couldn’t stop.

“See, he’d just been laid off from his architectural firm. Down on his luck, he bought a nice camera on a whim with the last of his savings ‘cause he’d always fancied himself to pick it up as a hobby. He was taking a few cityscapes around the streets of Blackpool. And then comes the leaf ex machina, yeah? A bloody _leaf_ had fallen right smack in the middle of his lens and nearly made him trip into traffic because he jumped and panicked.  Mum pulled him from an oncoming car and he was smitten from the start. Could barely take his eyes off of her, mum said when he wasn’t listening. Then again, he’d always say the same thing too. They were mad for each other from the word go.

“Anyway, he asked for her number. Said he’d like to take her out for coffee or something sometime to repay her. She said he could repay her right then and there, so she took him along with her to the wedding so he could take photos of the desserts for her portfolio. And he did, he was only too happy to. He took a few of the wedding too and the best man’s speech and the photographer in charge really liked his photos, bought them from him, and dad figured he could do this for a living.

“Eventually, they became a bit of a package deal and they fell in love and had _me_.

“I was always helpless in the kitchen if my mum wasn’t there to stop me from mucking up but photography, I always got. Was always good at it. My dad was always a bit of a sap, though. You’d think it’s my mum who’d be sentimental, she was a tiny bit of a control freak and forgot _nothing_ , but it was him who got really mushy all the time. He kept the leaf, you know. It was how he proposed to her. He said it was _the most important leaf in human history_ because it had had to grow in that _exact_ way in that _exact place_ so that _precise_ wind could tear it from that _precise_ branch and make it fly into his _exact_ face at that _exact_ moment and if just one of those tiny little things had never happened… he’d never have met her.”

The last sentence was almost an inheritance. She’d heard it so, so many times over, while she was growing up, that it had become a bit of a standard for anyone else she knew to live up to, a bit of a mantra as to what to believe love could be—if it ever existed. (Well—if it ever existed on the tapestry of her life, that is; some people were simply born to lose and be alone.)

She turned her head and found that the Doctor was watching her as she told her story. They were face to face, but a breath apart, and for a second both their eyes darted at the other’s lips. Clara smiled and was the first to look away, wistful.

“He gave me the leaf when—” she swallowed, “when my mum passed away.”

“Why doesn’t he go on the shoots with you?” he asked, quiet but still curious.

“Dad hasn’t picked up a camera in eleven years. I’ve tried to get him back into it but—he just won’t. Linda’s no help, she was quite happy to let me take over full time after I finished university.”

“That photo you were looking at there?” Clara slid down on her chair just so as she pointed to the frame, her arm almost against his chest. He straightened up then, at the almost contact, and looked at where she was pointing. “That was on their last job together. Mum passed a few weeks after this photo was taken.”

She took her coffee cup and took a sip of it.

“The couple on it? Divorced not less than three years later ‘cause he was cheating on her,” she said with a smirk, without even realising it.

The Doctor was quick to look back at her, brows high and thin lips almost pursed.

“For someone whose whole family works in the wedding industry, you’re surprisingly cynical.”

“I am not _cynical_.”

“Then what’s that smile for?”

“What smile?” Her brows furrowed again, puzzled lines forming between them. She raised fingers to her lips.

“Sad. Happy. At the same time, it’s confusing. Like two emotions at once, it’s like you’re malfunctioning,” he scoffed. He gestured animatedly with his hands. “You look at those pictures and you see love but then you smile and you think to yourself— _oh, they’re happy now but they’re not going to last._ ”

Clara held her coffee cup with both hands and bowed her head. She tried to hide her smile – her sad smile, cynical smile – as she took another drink of her coffee and emptied her cup.

“Some things are just too beautiful to live,” she replied. A pause later, she continued, “I should get back to work.”

He put his hands behind his back and went back to the bean bag, picked the guitar back up, and started playing. She turned her head to him just so and asked, “Are you seriously just going to sit there all day?”

“Yep,” he answered and shrugged.

A long moment of peace filled the air once more and she worked on the set of photos in silence. When she tried to drink out of his coffee cup, she almost spat it back out with how sweet it was. The Doctor remained unapologetic and simply kept playing. It was a few minutes later, while he was lazily playing the guitar and watching her work, that he started to speak again, suddenly remembering a genuine reason as to why he wanted to come here.

“You know, I’ve got another brother—”

“ _Another_ brother?”

“Adoptive. They’re all adoptive brothers. He’s getting married early next year. He and his fiancée are thinking of hiring you too.”

“Hang on—you don’t mean _Evan Smith_ , do you?”

“That’s the one.”

“How are you all _brothers?_ Or is that just a thing you call yourselves like—what, some sort of secret boy band?”

“We’re all the John Smith boys of the Lungbarrow Orphanage near Glasgow.”

“So _you’re_ John Smith too?”

“No, I’m the twelfth.”

“Oh, shut up,” she rolled her eyes. “Seriously, though. If that’s your name—why does everybody call you the Doctor?”

“It’s not my name but I was given the title anyway for tradition’s sake, I guess. I was left with a card when I was dropped off but nobody could pronounce it, so, on the records, it was always just John Smith XII.”

“Then what _is_ your name?”

“The Doctor.”

“Are you going to be this insufferable the whole time?” He shrugged. Clara shook her head but stared thoughtfully into space for a moment as the penny dropped. “Hang on, if you’re all John Smith… where’d he get _Evan_ from?”

“He’s the Eleventh John Smith.”

“So?”

“ _Eleven_ , Clara,” he said. “El-even. _Evan._ ”

“Oh my God, get out,” she said, covering her face with a hand.

“Oh my _God_ ,” she laughed.

“Is it really? Oh my _God!_ ” she burst into giggles—the kind that hurt, the kind of giggling that made you want to fold yourself in half and double over. The Doctor grinned at the sight, at the sound.

“He’s a bit reluctant to hire you,” he said, strumming and prolonging the quiet note.

“Yeah, I bet he would be.”

“Why?”

“We dated once. Eons and eons ago but he kept leaving me dead in a ditch so I dumped him. He kept avoiding me at the Tyler-Smith’s which is, y’know— probably a bit understandable. But we were all right by the end of it. It’s just—it’d be a bit awkward for your _ex_ to shoot your own wedding, wouldn’t it?”

“Not as awkward as your ex doing the best man speech at your wedding, I’d guess.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Dated his fiancée once. Eons ago.”

Clara’s jaw practically hit the floor. (He’s dated before—which is good to know.)

“Was she at the Tyler-Smith’s?” He couldn’t help but notice that her voice got an octave higher.

“Yep.”

“Show me.”

He put the guitar down and waddled over to her – one hand on the back of her chair (almost around her shoulders but not quite), the other on her desk as he crouched low enough to be at the same eye level to her monitor as she was. Clara, nonplussed, scrolled through the thousands and thousands of photos from that wedding and when he said the familiar mop of curly, dark blonde hair, he pointed.

“That’s her. River Song.”

“ _River Song?_ ” Clara clicked the photo and enlarged it. Despite being one of the more mature friends in attendance at the wedding, hers was a wardrobe that was certainly braver than most of the others’. She had a flower tucked into her curly hair—hair that practically defied the laws of gravity and space. She gawked at the photograph and asked, “As in, Evan’s _Professor Song?_ Good God, I didn’t know she was a woman!”

She turned to him, “And you’re the best man? _Again?_   I would’ve thought he’d pick _Rory_ … no offence.”

“Did you date Rory too?”

Perhaps she was imagining it but the way he said that had an almost bitterness to it. She’d almost say _jealous_. Clara rolled her eyes at him and smirked.

“One, in contrast to popular belief, Doctor, I have _never_ had the slightest interest in pretty young men. And two, Rory Williams has been in love with Amy Pond practically since _conception_ ,” she said. As she spoke, she gestured and raised her fingers between them as she emphasised her points to him. To both their surprise, they didn’t flinch away from the other and remained how they were. Clara set her hands back to her keyboard and mouse and tried to scroll through the photos to look for ones with Rory and Amy. She continued, “Rory and I aren’t particularly close but we go way back, yeah. I’ve known him since Sunday school. Do you _know_ Amy?”

He made a _tsk!_ sound.

“Of course I know Amy. I babysat her for a while when she was young.”

“Oh my God,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She was shaking her head and looking him up and down. “You’re the _raggedy doctor_ too, aren’t you?”

He shrugged as if it was nothing and smiled. Clara laughed and gave his chest a light, playful push.

“How the _hell_ have we never met before?”

 

* * *

 

That was how they spent the next few hours.

Eventually, he’d taken the chair from the vanity table and wheeled it next to her. Shona did one last coffee run before she clocked out and they still hadn’t stopped sharing stories. They talked about the photos, about the people in them and how they knew them (and how they didn’t). The Doctor ended up convincing her to salvage a few photos she hadn’t thought to put into the package, simply because he could give the context about them.

Sometimes, he’d even slip out a compliment about a photo or two or thirty.

At first, she’d tease him about it and he would blush and try to make it seem like it was backhandedly given. However, she eventually just accepted it with a smile and they worked amicably and laughed as they talked for hours and hours and hours on end. They could barely stop once they started and even with the short bathroom breaks in between, they hardly noticed how time was passing.

He hadn’t expected to have stayed as long as he did but they only realised the time when Clara’s stomach made a rude noise and his soon followed, almost psychosomatic. Silence surrounded the room and for the first time that day, it was awkward.

It was well past 2 in the morning.

“Look at the time. _Christ_ , I’m so sorry, I didn’t even notice—” she started but he was rather unmoved. Even in the almost dimly lit darkness, his bright blue eyes shone. He was smiling.

“You hungry?” he asked her.

“Well—yeah but—not even Pizza Hut is open at this time, I think. Nothing’s open but pubs, I reckon. D’you want to try our luck at one?”

“Nah, I know someone. Hang on,” he said. The Doctor pulled out his phone from his trouser pockets and scrolled through his contacts. He pressed on one and let it ring. Clara watched on, amused and expectant, with her legs crossed and her practically reclining on the back of her spinning chair.

“ _Valentina!_ Val, sweetheart—” Clara mouthed _sweetheart_ at him, teasing him for it but she was amazed all the same. He narrowed his eyes at her. He switched and continued, “Lo so che è tardi ma potresti fare una consegna? Sono vicino a, ho controllato."

She tucked in her lips to restrain the sound of disbelief but the blown pupils of dark eyes spoke all her truth.

"Si, sono consapevole di che ora sia," he said, rude and pleading at the same time.

"Non è così, sono- il progetto a cui sto lavorando mi sta prendendo più tempo del previsto, tutto qui. Diciamo che mi sono dimenticato a di mangiare."

Clara didn’t know what he was saying but she was pretty sure he was blushing.

"Si- si, no. Per due."

"No—solo—puoi farlo o no? Mi stai facendo fare brutta figura," he groaned.

"Perfetto!” he exclaimed, arms stretched wide for a moment in his delight. “Ti mando un messaggio con l'indirizzo."

"No, non sono al mio solito, sono allo studio."

"È per una cosa. Solo... una cosa."

"Te ne devo una. Grazie."

The Doctor ended the call.

“Another ex?” she asked.

“Ex- _apprentice,_ so don’t get any ideas.”

“I wasn’t getting any until _you_ said it,” she suggested. “Who would’ve thought _you’d_ get around?”

_Anyone who spent any length of time longer than twelve seconds with him,_ she thought, _that’s who._

“I do _not_ get around. She was one of my apprentices in art school.”

“You were in art school?”

“Eons and eons ago.”

“What’s your poison?”

“Dabbled in some photography for a while but mostly? Mixed media, y’know— Paint. Pencils. Charcoal.”

“Why’d you give it up?”

“Who said I gave it up?”

“I may only have a degree in English literature but you _did_ say ex-apprentice which connotes _former_ apprentice which means _in the past_.”

“I gave up _teaching_. Not art.”

“So why’d you give it up, then? The teaching?”

“Traveled for a while. Saw some things. Came back. Didn’t fancy going back to my old life, that’s all.”

He rubbed his hands together and looked away. He sat on her desk and let his tongue dart out to lick his lips. She knew not to press further so she didn’t—not quite.

“You traveled? _Where_?”

“Here, there, and back again. Not much to say about it,” he answered noncommittally. Not quite lying, she knew, but not quite telling the truth either. Clara knew the tone because she used it only too often. “You ever travel before?”

“Want to. Really, _really_ want to. Can’t just yet. Budget’s not as ready as I’d like it to be,” she answered him in the same way. “Anyway, you went back to your family, though. Ten weddings, you said.”

“Yeah,” he said; his answer, clipped. He crossed his arms against his chest and gestured to her monitor with a cock of his head. “How’s your deadline looking?”

“Good,” she answered, clicking through the photos she’d finished and the ones she had yet to do. He resumed his position next to her chair, arm almost-but-not-quite around her. “It’s good. We sorted through more than I thought we could salvage. It helped that you knew mostly everyone. Should be done by tomorrow, print by Friday. Everything should be done by Monday, as scheduled.”

“What about the living room piece print you mentioned? The one you yelled at me for?”

“You’re not still sore about that, are you? To be perfectly fair, you were being a right arse,” she told him. He gave her a grunt of displeasure of being reminded of that first encounter—a grunt that did not quite outright deny his behaviour either. She continued, “For the record, I finished that two days ago and had it shipped off to the printers then too. It’ll be ready at the same time as the other ones. Want to see?”

He nodded.

Clara brought the photo up to the screen and showed it to him. It was just as she’d described it to him that night but the contrast of Rose’s hair to the setting sun’s broken reflection upon the ripples of the sea was even better than the image he had in his mind’s eye. John, with his hands in his pockets, stood astride with his sandshoes upon the sand with his gaze in exactly the way Clara had directed it.

“I did some digging before the wedding and they had a bit of a spell where they kind of broke up and thought they’d never see each other again or something?”

“It’s a long story. We don’t call it their Doomsday phase for nothing.”

“Yeah, that. Thought it was a good representation. Pitched the concept to Rose before I went through with it and she seemed pretty happy. Even John doesn’t know this is a thing yet—it’s supposed to be her surprise wedding present to him,” she went on to say. She narrowed her eyes at him, schoolmarm voice in full effect. “You didn’t tell him about it, right?”

He shook his head.

“Good man,” she told him. A beat later, she asked, “So what’d you think?”

The Doctor would have told her that he thought she was beautiful.

He would have told her that he thought she was incredible and impossibly clever and quick and fascinating and kind and so many other things but he’d just looked at her, mouth agape, and she looked at him in the same away. Each other’s gaze quickly flicking towards their lips; it was her who started to lean in when—

_Knock, knock, knock, knock!_

Clara turned her head and so did he. He sighed and muttered something about it _always being four knocks_ and went to the door. She smiled to herself and started to export what of the saved photos she managed to finish that day. She was calling it a night, right then and there.

Of course, it was Valentina who greeted him at the door and he reached for his wallet from his back pocket. She craned her neck to look behind him and, through the beaded curtain, she saw Clara doing the same thing. Clara waved and she waved back. She raised a brow at the Doctor, smirked knowingly, and started humming the beginning notes of _Bella Notte_.

“Oh, shut up,” he said as he paid her. Valentina gave him the food and a hug goodbye. Told him good luck for good measure though luck for what, he could not fathom.

“Grazie,” he told her and kissed the top of her head as he sent her out on her way.

When he returned with the takeaway, he found his usual order of pizza and two cans of Guinness, twice over. But upon further inspection of the delivery, he saw that there was one order that was not part of the deal. He gave Clara the pizza and beer and opened the mystery package and when he opened it, he found it to be spaghetti and meatballs – as if the girl’s reference earlier was not subtle enough – and he rolled his eyes and groaned.

“Something wrong?” Clara asked.

“No, nothing— pasta?” he offered her half of the container and split it equally.

They ate in relative silence – the day’s hunger finally catching up and they both gave in. Clara, her legs in a lotus position as she reclined against her spinning chair; the Doctor, stretched out and lazily picking away at his food while on the bean bags.

The room was dimly lit, their having had adjusted the brightness of the light overhead earlier on. The scent of bread and cheese and tomato sauce wafted through the air and mingled with the aroma of coffee that still somehow lingered. The pair of them will always associate these things with the memory of this day from this day forth.

“You know—” she started, plastic fork twirling pasta together. He looked at her, expectant.

“This isn’t bad, as far as first dates go.”

The quirk of her brow and her cheekily dimpled smile practically dared him to deny it.

He simply bowed his head and ate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Valentina (@marshcapaldi on Twitter) for her birthday a few days ago and I’d like to thank my other favourite Twitter Valentina (@magicofvenice) & @_myeung on Twitter for the Italian translation since I, a smol Filipina bean, do not speak a lick of Italian. Dialogue that went on above is as follows:
> 
> “I know it’s late but could you make a delivery? I’m nearby, I checked.”
> 
> “Yes, I’m aware what time it is.”
> 
> “It’s not like that, I’m- project I’m working on ran later than expected, that’s all. Kind of forgot to eat.”
> 
> “Yeah- yeah, no. For two.”
> 
> “No—just—can you do it or not? You’re making me look bad.”
> 
> “Brilliant! I'll text you the address." 
> 
> "No, I'm not at my usual, I'm at a studio." 
> 
> "It's for a thing. Just... a thing." 
> 
> "I owe you. Thanks.”
> 
> ...
> 
> The non-fiction books on Clara’s shelf are canonical, which I took from this close reading of her bookshelf from when I painstakingly tried to read the titles of her books from that shot in “Dark Water”. (See post on my old Tumblr blog here: http://goo.gl/wN8tZ8) And, yes. Clara Oswald did go to Sunday school (as stated in the short story "Into the Nowhere" by Jenny T. Colgan). 
> 
> Phew. This chapter turned out way, way longer than I expected it to turn out. Yikes. R I P me in pieces. Thanks so very much for your lovely comments, by the way! They make me so happy and I'm so thankful for your feedback and kind words. I hope you all enjoy where this is going!
> 
> All my love,  
> Jo xxx


	4. Chapter 4

“ _The very essence of romance is uncertainty._ ”

Algernon, ‘ _The Importance of Being Earnest’_  by Oscar Wilde

 

* * *

 

  

Clara Oswald was not falling in love.

Absolutely not.

The thought was preposterous. She was not some Disney heroine who fell for the first pair of fine eyes to look at her like  _that_. (You know the look—the one that made you feel like he’s just about seen a million spectacular sunsets, like he’s beheld the creation of life itself, and yet still looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever had the privilege of being alive to witness.  _That_  look—she knew that look, she spent her life capturing men and women in love, looking at each other with  _that_  look.)

He wasn’t even looking at her like that; it was mostly those eyebrows of his, she’d reason. He had very expressive eyebrows. He had very expressive _everything_ , really—every part of him was expressive, every part of him was a blunt and overwhelming truth; and, dear God, there was so much. There was so much of him to know and when he was there, all she wanted to do was see him—see all of him, know all of him.

Clara would reason that she was not falling in love, not even close—she was simply curious. She has always been curious; she’s always hated not knowing. That was all.

(Maybe a crush, she’d say if she were feeling generous. That was all she’d allow. It was a harmless little crush. Something problematic about him will turn up eventually, she’d reason, and this would all fade away into a distant, inconsequential memory soon enough.)

This, she reasoned with herself, as she took her shower in the day that followed, a debate with herself that she argued over and over again in her head.

She’d woken up with a hoodie draped over her like a blanket as she slept. She was curled into one of her bean bags; she didn’t remember falling asleep. But there was no Doctor in sight. The jacket smelled so strongly of him – there were traces of last night’s meal, there was the hint of coffee and freshly washed laundry that had been so distinctly him that lingered on it (and, for the record, that scent certainly did not make her feel warm inside, thank you very much) – and no, she was definitely not smiling when she put the pieces of what must have happened together. That they’d talked well into the morning, that she’d fallen asleep sometime in the middle of it, and that he’d cleaned up after her and closed up shop for her. Maybe even carried her to the largest bean bag where she could sleep more comfortably.  _Whatever._

Yet, she washed it all away when she got into the shower about fifteen minutes later.

It was ridiculous to entertain such a fanciful notion. It was a crush— that was all it was. A tiny, girlish crush that surely would never lead anywhere. It had to be—just the way she was talking to herself while in the warm shower was indicator enough. It was a preposterous possibility.

(She was arguing in circles.)

_He’s just that nice to everyone. Probably,_  she told herself.  _He must have that effect on loads of other people. Get your head together, Oswald._

There was work to be done. No distractions this time.

So when she returned to her station with damp hair, hoodie draped at the back of her chair, she was set on focusing on something that would actually result into something that mattered—like the second half of her down payment from the Tyler-Smiths.

Two hours had passed with her sat on the chair with a single-minded determination.

She’d meant to ask Shona to pop off to fetch her a quick lunch – maybe a light salad, pick up more beans for the coffee maker while she was out and about – but never got around to it. She wasn’t hungry, not exactly, and it wasn’t a rare occurrence for her to forget to eat every few hours or so when she was focused on something. Therefore, one could only imagine her surprise when the bell rang to distract her from staring at the monitor for too long. A particularly Scottish distraction who had three coffees at hand and a bag that looked suspiciously like more takeaway.

“ _Someone’s_  eager,” she told him by way of greeting as he strolled in without invitation, unable to hide the smile that almost immediately made her cheeks ache. A good kind of ache. He wordlessly handed Shona her own coffee cup and the blonde could not help but look like a deer in headlights as he did so, her blue eyes darting between Clara and the Doctor, lips parted and she didn’t think she was breathing.

“How’d you know what I—”

“I didn’t,” he told her, barely looking at her and shrugging his shoulders. He wouldn’t tell her that he saw the markings of CRA/CRF on her coffee up just the day before. She took a tentative sip through the straw and her light blue eyes widened. She and Clara exchanged a look to which the latter only replied with an expression that was a cross between amused and bemused, a shrug, and the universal hands-up-in-the-air gesture of  _hell if I know what’s going on either_.

“Just making sure you’re keeping to schedule,” he told Clara as he handed her the coffee, oblivious to the exchange between the two women.

Clara rolled her eyes; smile, irrepressible. She breathed out a laugh of disbelief. When she took a sip, she was delighted with the familiar flavor of her favoured soy flat white. When he settled himself into the bean bags and busied himself with the guitar that was still casually laid along the shelves where he’d left it, as he had done the day before, the two women had a quick, silent conversation with each other, using just their eyes, quirks of their brow, and casual shrugs that could be summed up in two lines:

_You and him, then?_

_No idea._

 

* * *

 

 

How she had any work done at all, she didn’t know. But she did— or, more accurately,  _they_  did.

The Doctor knew how to stay quiet for brief pockets of time every so often; though this was because there was something on her bookshelves that caught his attention. He’d leafed through most of her books in the hours he’d spent with her, admonishing her every remark that asked if he was bored yet, and even took to amusing himself with her Polaroid camera.

“You break that, I’ll detach something from you,” she told him after he took his first photo— one of her, right in the middle of the frame, while her back was turned to him, with her hand inching towards what must have been her third cup of coffee for the day. The film had developed before she had the chance to turn her chair to admonish him for it; he shook it out, pursed his thin lips, and shrugged, evidently nonplussed by the threat he’d come to know as playful hyperbole.

But, mostly (when he wasn't being a nuisance, she'd teasingly say to anyone who'd ask so long as he was within earshot), he only watched her work.

He offered but the small suggestion every so often and she found that they were finished before 7 even rolled around. They had a quiet dinner out where they told each other of stories—him, stories of his travels that were never about him; her, stories of wedding disasters she’s known in her life that were never about her. They parted just as amicably, not quite knowing where they stood and both wondering if they should kiss the other on the cheek. Neither of them went for it.

Friday, the Doctor had checked in but Shona told him Clara would be at the printer’s all day. He tried not to look as disappointed as he was but there was a way about him that carried a sharp, stinging truth that no veil of grumpiness could hide. He even looked just the tiniest bit lost even, Shona would recount, as he tried to appear that he was only ever there because he was checking in on the progress for John and Rose’s order, that was all. He’d shuffled around a bit and tried to force her to let him reorganise her spreadsheets on Excel just to make a point and Clara could not help but smirk into her phone as the story was told.

Saturday, Clara Oswald slept for fifteen hours straight. Her office was closed.

Sunday, the pair of them stayed at their respective homes for the most part. The Doctor painted for most of the day until he popped in to Ten and Rose’s last Sunday roast before they left for their extended honeymoon. He would say that he only went for the food. Clara went grocery shopping, ended up taking a few business related phone calls, had a quiet night in with a quinoa salad she’d prepared herself (there was a tiny bit too much fish sauce in it but damn it all, she had her dignity and finished it all), a few glasses of red wine, and  _Strictly’s_  results show before bed.

Monday, she’d made her deliveries, as promised. Clara preferred to courier this out herself instead of a service. Not because she thought she might see the Doctor, of course not, it was just that this was her best work yet and she would like to see it handed in herself. Only Rose was there at first to receive the order and together, the two women hung the aluminium piece on the wall. Rose made them both tea and together, they leafed through the photographs in the book with the new bride grinning with her tongue between her teeth almost the entire time.

John arrived home after an hour or two, just as the women were getting better acquainted, and could not help but cry when he saw the photograph. He stood there for a good few seconds, mouth agape until he whispered “ _But I didn’t—I don’t—_ ” while shaking his head. Clara watched as the two embraced, John happily twirling his wife in absolute glee. She was just about to leave, deeming her job done, when John insisted that she stay for dinner.

It wasn’t until after dessert that she’d gotten a phone call that moved the plot along.

 

* * *

 

 

Half an hour before midnight, Clara was just about ready to commit double homicide.

Her office was dimly lit, gear prepped the night before, and she was running out of options. Hell— she had no options left. In hindsight, she should have thought of him sooner—but she was thinking about him often enough, more often than she would have liked, and that was dangerous in itself. She shouldn't, if she knew what was good for her, but more and more— he seemed like the only option and he was. This was business, she told herself.  _Business_. She placed a call to John Smith, hung up, and called a new number.

The phone rang.

She missed the days when she had a cord to twirl around her fidgeting fingers. Now, all she could do was tap aimlessly along the table. She tucked in her lips and they pressed firmly, almost painfully, against each other.

The phone rang again. A click came from the other end. Silence followed.

 “ _Hiiii_ ,” she tried, forcibly chipper; heart, racing.

“Hello?” he asked, perhaps noting that there was something different with her tone—different enough that it made him wary. Clara pressed her tongue to her upper lip for a moment and exhaled.

“Have you missed me?” she tried again, cringing at herself. She bit her lip.

“Be more specific. Who are you?”

“Ha ha. Hilarious,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Clara Oswald,” he said after a beat. She couldn't see the trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Doctor,” she answered back. A pause. “So you  _did_  miss me.”

“ _You_  called.”

" _You_  didn't deny it." Clara didn’t have to see him to know he was blushing. She just knew. She could practically hear it in the almost silence that followed where he was just about to stammer a sudden denial but she barely gave him the time to do so. The fact made her smile. Her relentless tapping on the table became but a subtle sliding of the tips of her fingers against the smooth surface. She cut him off before he could say anything. “Besides—  _someone_  hasn’t been poking my stuff about today. It’s been awfully quiet around here; it's almost unsettling.”

“Sorry, sorry. I was working on a thing.”

“Oooh, a  _thing_! What thing?”

“Just... a thing.”

“Being mysterious now?”

“Well, I’m a man of mystery.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes and laughing. A pause occurred between them, each other listening to the other's silence and grinning without knowing it, and neither of them hung up. She exhaled and practically spoke through grit teeth. “Anyway, I uh—there  _is_  a reason why I called.”

“Yes?”

“I realise it’s last minute and it's almost midnight but—" another pause, she bit her lip "...you wouldn’t happen to be  _busy_  tomorrow, would you?”

"I might not be," he teased, spinning aimlessly on his chair. “Why?”

“I had a pre-nup shoot scheduled in two weeks. I think I told you about it—”

“Don’t remember.”

“Thought not. It’s just—” Clara licked her lips and took a breath for, with the next part of her story, she hardly stopped for breath at all. “Well, their research trip was moved to next week and they won't be back for another two months. They asked yesterday if they could reschedule and I said yes and then everything went bonkers from there and I’ve run out of favours, basically. Journey’s uncle’s suddenly had a mini stroke about two hours ago or something and he's fine and all, so she tells me, but she’s had to book a last minute flight to Ireland for him anyway. Psi and Saibra have got this conference thing in Geneva. Even  _Shona’d_  filed for leave two months ago so she could go on holiday  _this_  week with Dave to Maldives, and she’s been gone since Saturday—”

“Am I supposed to know any of these people?” he asked, breaking her off.

“My point  _is_ —” she licked her lips and squeezed her eyes shut. “I need a secondary. More of an overall assistant, really. Tomorrow.”

“And you’re asking me?”

“Kind of?” She cringed. “I mean, you’ve got  _some_  experience, right?”

“Yes?”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Do what?”

“Come with me tomorrow?” She bit the nail of her thumb. “Please? It’s paid work. Breakfast and lunch are on me. And I’m a really nice boss!”

He scoffed. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Oh, shut up. Will you do it or not?”

What she didn’t know was he was sat by a painting he was working on, a single Polaroid photo at the base corner as a reference, and he was smiling. Why and at what, he wouldn’t tell anyone—but he was, indeed, smiling at absolutely nothing at all. He stayed quiet for a moment, an idea quickly forming into his head. He’d have to act quickly for it to come together so soon and he’d been so lost in the moment of sudden planning that he’d nearly forgotten he was still on the phone with Clara.

“Hello? Doctor, you still there?”

“Yeah. Yep,” he said as he scratched his cheek. “Okay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Oh, bless you.” She sighed and slouched into her chair. Just as quick, she straightened her spine once again as she fired up her computer to deal with last minute logistics. She was typing away, phone between her cheek and her shoulder, as she calculated the hours in her head. “Okay, d’you think you could be at my place by around… 4AM?”

“ _Four_  in the morning?” he repeated.

“Yeah. We’re driving. Like I said— _really_  low on crew. Train’s a bit too expensive and besides, there’s too much to carry. Going to have to be a bit of everything. It’ll be a  _really_  long day.”

“Clara, it’s almost midnight.”

“I know.” She had the grace to cringe at herself again and she placed a hand against her racing heart. “Journey kind of cancelled last minute which threw me completely out of sorts. I may have been panicking just a, uh—y’know. Just a teeny, tiny bit. Before I called you. Still up for it? Please say yes.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay—only if you hang up right now and try to get some sleep in.”

“Okay, sure,” she said a bit too quickly.  _No bloody way am I getting any sleep tonight but that’s sweet of you to say._  Clara bit her tongue before she could say anything and amended herself with, “I guess I’ll—see you in a bit?”

He’d nodded before he realised she couldn’t see him.

“I mean—yeah, I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Talk soon.”

The call ended. He looked at his phone and smiled at how she always seemed to have the last word in.

 

* * *

 

 

He was an hour early to her studio, unsurprised to find her multitasking as if her life depended on it.

There were large black backpacks packed neatly by the door but she was still sat by her desk, skimming over face charts and Google images of what looked like a ruined village. He brought a full tumbler of black coffee and handed it to her. It was only then that she noticed that she wasn’t alone in her studio. When she looked up at him, her frantically wide eyes had softened at the sight of him and when he offered the tumbler to her, she sighed.

“Oh God, thank you; I could kiss you,” she said, taking the tumbler and pouring herself a quick cup. He blinked a few times, as if waiting, but when she did nothing, he busied himself with looking to her numerous bags.

“I thought I told you to sleep.”

“Yeah, well—you’re not the boss of me, are you?” she said as she took another swig.

“Where are we going?”

“Military site at Caerwent on the A48.”

“Wales?”

“Yeah, why else'd you think I've got you here so early? Jen and Tim met there for training and he’s managed to pull a few strings to get us a few hours of daylight on site. You ready?”

“They’re soldiers?”

“Not really. They do work for the military though.”

“And how are we getting there?”

“My car’s parked outside.”

“There’s nothing outside but that mini—”

“That’s the one. You’ll find she’s only smaller on the outside.”

“You drive a _mini?_ ”

“Problem?”

She raised a brow at him, her smirking lips pressed against the rim of the makeshift coffee cup, and she dared him to have a problem. It was the first time he’d seen her smile that morning. He rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“’Course not, boss,” he said, smiling just the same.

“Good. Help me load the bags in, yeah?”

 

* * *

 

 

It took them an hour to get on the road. After they packed everything in, Clara had to check, recheck, and triple check her lists and her gear in an attempt to make sure that nothing was forgotten. He took this time to quickly run to the nearest shop to get them a few sandwiches as well as some fresh coffee to go. When he came back, the Doctor insisted on driving and, to his great surprise, it only took a bit of arguing for her to agree with him.

She fell asleep, curled up into herself at the passenger seat, within the first five minutes on the road.

Driving the mini was, surprisingly, no herculean task. She was right in saying that it was only smaller on the outside as how she managed to pack everything and them comfortably enough within the small vehicle was very nearly enough to question his grasp of the universal constants of physical reality. They spent the four hour drive in near silence, Clara hardly even stirring in her sleep when they stopped for gas or when he had to stop for a quick loo break.

Anyone who knew the Doctor would know what he was like— he was manic, like a walking forest fire that burnt and raged and consumed everything in his path. A person who has found him in a moment of quiet is a rarity in itself for they would say he was not capable of such a feat. He needed to move, to run— like some sort of shark, they’d say.

The Doctor had always been good at running, even in the times when he was meant to stay.

They didn’t know that he was capable of this, that he would even want this— whatever this even was. This was a sight privy to but a few, and even then.

The car radio was on but the indecipherable mutterings of pudding brained early morning radio DJs were of little consequence to him, as were the morning news and debates from some new gossip that was happening to some celebrity or some politician or some other. He let it play at the lowest volume, just for the excuse of noise, but for the most part, they were lulled by the sound of rubber on asphalt. Occasionally, he hummed.

Clara had her head against the car’s window and she snored softly and sparsely. Sometimes, she grunted as she unconsciously readjusted herself, and every time, the Doctor would look to see how she was doing, only to smile to himself when he saw that she was still sleeping soundly.

Four hours later, he had to wake her when they arrived. She scolded him for not having had woken her earlier but found that he’d only woken her up in the first place because she was the one the guards would recognise as the one with proper access to the site.

It took them two hours to set up, finding their clockwork rhythm. They moved like gears shifting into place – twisting and turning without instruction or choreography, pure instinct and natural chemistry, and there was the occasional high five. She commandeered a small room to be the dressing room for sole qualification that it had a table with a chair.

The couple arrived soon after they finished setting up (this was, of course, no coincidence as Clara probably had the day scheduled to the minute, the Doctor would say) and introductions were made. Jennifer Cass and Timothy Lunn were a friendly enough couple, though Ms Cass had her reservations with Clara in the beginning.

“She says she wants the pictures to look like _her_ , not like a made up doll-version of her—” Tim translated.

“And okay, I get that,” Clara reasoned. “Think of it like this. The way you’re framed in a photo—shadows, colours or the lack of it, framing, backdrop, details—that all counts to how the story’s told in a single frame. Makeup helps do that—except solely on your face.”

“She just doesn’t want it,” he argued for her, his tone a mix of exasperated and amused at his fiancée’s insistence.

“If anything, it’s just the basics. I’m not a makeup artist; I just know the face charts Saibra did for me. I’m just taking out the shine and making your skin tone look even for photos, because of flashback and lighting issues, correcting the dark circles under your eyes because they’ll get exaggerated in high definition. Then it’s just a matter of defining and neatening up your brows because the light tends to wash out the colour so they’re defined just to frame your face a bit better, blusher and a highlight for a bit of colour since the foundation and powder kind of covers that up, some mascara and eyeshadow just to highlight the colour of your eyes and make you look just a tiny bit more awake— that’s it. Maybe a bit of gloss ‘cause yours look a tiny bit chapped but that’s like my one other correction— none of the really crazy makeup stuff, hand on my heart,” she said, then putting a hand against her heart. “I promise.”

The Doctor decided then to take a snapshot of them then with her Polaroid camera that she didn’t realise he’d taken from her shelves.

“Oi!”

“I’m bored,” he grunted, shaking the photo and putting it within the inner pocket of his jacket.

“You’re paying for new film for that; you know that, right?”

“I thought I was getting paid for this,” he teased.

“I’m docking the film from your pay then; you didn’t even have permission to take that,” she retorted, pursing her lips but gave in to the smile she couldn’t hide soon enough. He shrugged and she shook her head as she brought her attention back to the soon-to-be Mrs Lunn. “So, how about it?”

‘ _What were they talking about?_ ’ she signed to Tim.

‘ _I think they were flirting. Can’t be sure,_ ’ he signed back.

‘ _So what’s she looking at_ me _for?_ ’

‘ _She’s asking if she can put makeup on you now._ ’

Clara cleared her throat. “If it helps, I have to make up Tim too.”

‘ _You do?_ ’ he signed to Clara after he’d translated her, before he realised that he didn’t speak and couldn’t be understood. “You do? I mean— I do? What for?”

“Basically the same reasons I need to make _her_ up. You’re not exempt from flashback and unsightly facial oil, y’know.” As Clara spoke, Tim signed and Jennifer chuckled. He frowned and, after that, she was much more amenable to the makeup. The Doctor gave Clara a _thumbs up!_ gesture; she winked.

Aside from the small misunderstanding in the beginning, the shoot went smoothly though it went slowly.

With her very limited crew of one other person, it had proved the challenge when the light kept changing every ten minutes or so, and there were the scattered showers that occurred every so often. It threw Clara off and tested her temper beyond reason but she wasn’t a professional for nothing.

The couple was easy enough to work with – Cass, formidable when she stood her ground but reserved and blushing when asked to pose a certain way with her fiancé, even if it was just a hug or a simple kiss on the cheek; Lunn, shy in his own way but oh, how his grin lit up his face when his fiancée was in his arms and how it always transformed him. It was almost too easy to forget that she wasn’t actually getting paid for this job—the pair made it easy; the Doctor made it even easier.

When he wasn’t taking secondary shots for her, holding up reflectors without complaints, rushing and running about to fetch water, external flashes, memory cards, and mineralised skin finishes and blushers (“ _No, not the Bobbi Brown ones, I asked for the Hourglass palette, the Ambient Lighting one, you berk! And my brushes!_ ”) for touch ups, or general errands that she’d tasked for him to do—he was taking photos of her while she was working with the Polaroid camera he’d all but stolen from her.

It lasted well into the last daylight hours of the day—to the point that they were being called to pack it up. But it was, unfortunately, the famed Golden Hour of photographers, when the natural light was all but bespoke by God to be used for this very reason. They were given their very last fifteen minute warning before they would have to be forcibly evicted.

“Honestly, Clara, don’t you think it’s enough—” Tim reasoned as the couple was reasonably almost as exhausted as their hired photographer and her assistant.

“No, no. I know, I’m sorry. I just need one more shot; the light’s perfect, I just—I just need something to stand on, I need…”

She tapped her chin with her pointer finger and looked around her as the nearby surroundings were mostly bare. She could not hope to achieve the shot she had in mind without added height somehow – nearly bird’s eye, with the couple touched by the soft golden glow of the setting sun and nearly everything else behind them shrouded in the shadow of almost blue night. The shot she had in mind would be the pièce de résistance of the day and she knew it.

“Doctor!” she called as he’d tucked himself a bit of a distance away, swiping through the previews on her wirelessly tethered iPad. He looked up and waddled over to her, eyes wide—questioning and expectant. “Tiny bit embarrassing but d’you think I could get on your shoulders? Need a bit of a boost.”

“I—” he stammered. “I could get a chair?”

“No time,” she argued. “I _really_ need this shot. Please?”

After a brief, though lengthy, debate with himself in his head, he put the iPad in the messenger bag he’d taken to carrying (for it contained folded-up reflectors, spare batteries and memory cards, as well as her Polaroid camera; it made for easy access to the things she asked for the most), as he relented and got on his knees to accommodate her request. She was light to carry, though he wobbled on his way to stand back up.

“You good?” she asked and he felt the weight of her camera on his hair.

“Just take your photo,” he told her—though he was, indeed, good. He put his hands above her knees to keep her steady.

“Right, you two! Last shots! Ready?” Clara raised the camera and he heard the burst of shots in quick succession.

“You get it?” She looked at the smaller preview on the screen of her camera.

“Not yet! D’you mind taking a few steps back?”

He did as he was told though he was careful, knowing there was a fragile Clara on his shoulders, and she pulled lightly at his hair in an unspoken agreement for him to stop. He wouldn’t tell her how nice that actually felt.

The next thing he knew, she was yelling at the couple again and then came the burst of shots. What came over him to slightly stumble, however, he didn’t know; perhaps, it was the near infinitesimal way that Clara adjusted herself just so that made him lose his balance enough to almost make them both fall over. He’d hung on to her legs around him and she clutched at his hair, curling over him and making herself as small as she could be. She’d squeaked when they almost fell and he felt the camera, dangling by the strap around her neck, against his face.

“You okay?” she muttered.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m okay,” he said as he slowly bent again and she stepped off and away. He straightened up turned to her, worry etched into every line on his face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m all right, hang on, let me just—” she said as she held her camera and looked back at her shots. “Oh my God…”

“What?” he asked as he looked over her shoulder and saw the last shot.

It was just about when they stumbled, he’d gather, but the fruit of their near fall was glorious. It inadvertently became a panned shot: a blurry marriage of golden sunset light and the dark-light blue of almost night, wrapped around the couple while they were caught mid-laugh while looking at each other. It was a beautiful, accidental shot.

Clara, in her exhausted glee, squealed and jumped onto him. He stumbled with a step back as her arms were wrapped around his neck. It took him a second too late to realise that her lips were on his and that she was kissing him. She’d taken him too much by surprise, his blue eyes owlishly wide and blinking in surprise, and she doubled back to herself almost just as quickly.

“Sorry about that,” she apologised, ducking down to hide her blush and dusting herself off and calling to the couple who was looking at the pair of them with intrigue and a matching set of little knowing smiles. “That’s a wrap!”

The Doctor was still looking at her – she didn’t know if he was blinking rapid-fire fast or not blinking at all – and she found that for the first time that day, she couldn’t quite meet his look. What had gotten over her, she couldn’t say.

“Sorry. Again. Sorry, I—” she stammered as she fumbled with her fingers. Really, she tried to laugh it off and cringe at herself. As it was, she was ceaselessly licking her lips and fidgeting. “I just get excited really easily and I just sort of—”

“Can I try that again?”

Silence.

Clara looked to him, pupils blown wide and her lips parted.

"What?"

"Could we—” He was frowning, lines forming between his scowling brows, and he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was distinctly downcast and his pale face had grown red. “Can I try that again?"

From gaping and gawking, her lips started slowly twitching to a smile—to a proper grin. Her cheeks already ached and she had to bite her lower lip at how he looked to her right then. Bashful and shy, with his shoulders curving into himself, and with quivering hands that she could tell he was debating on whether or not he should take it back, that he was probably reprimanding himself in his head for how he’d phrased it or for a multitude of other reasons.

“I don’t know—  _can_  you?” was all she replied, cheeky as ever, and that earned her a look from her that told her that that was not the answer of disgust or disapproval that he’d been expecting.

The Doctor looked down at her and there was so much, too much happening within the span of a few heartbeats that time itself seemed to slow down around them. It might have been sentimentally foolish or overly narcissistic to think so but that was how it felt.

He looked at her, those colour-of-the-sky eyes of his that were just about every fragment of blue and green that had ever been imagined by God; and she looked at him, and how the light from the sunset made her eyes look like crystallized honey with flecks of gold and amber and topaz and how her dilated pupils danced with the light, like the Sun itself revolved around her gravity. The sight of each other took their breath away and when he put a hand against her face, his touch (at first) soft and barely there, and then another, she found that she could not find it in herself to breathe. Not just yet, at least, as he looked at her like that— God, he was looking at her like _that_ ; like she was the first question, the last answer, and every prayer for truth in between.

Clara giggled then and he was gone.

The Doctor didn’t even particularly like kissing but he, just then, decided that he liked kissing _her_ — her with her soft sighs against his lips; her with her bending and breaking into him, under his touch; her with the taste of coffee on her tongue and the softness of her hair as his fingers reached to cradle the back of her head. She, however, did enjoy kissing—but she’d never been kissed like this before.

Clara’s hands were slow in their ascent up his chest but she held on to the front of his jacket for a spell, before they snaked up so that her arms might wrap around his neck once more. This was the proper sort of kiss—the one didn’t just make your heart race but the one that simultaneously made it stop and start at the same time. Like there was an event horizon right in the middle of her chest – an all-consuming feeling, right down to the tips of her tipping tiptoes.   

They parted by her own design, but only just so.

“Have you still got my Polaroid?” she whispered.

“Yeah…” he muttered, utterly dazed.

She scrunched her face and nodded at him.

“It’s a Polaroid moment right here if there ever was one.”

He struggled to reach into the bag still slung along his shoulders as she did not let go of him. Not that he minded as he had to crouch a bit just to be able to reach it and his efforts made her grin so much wider than she had before.

Camera in hand, he extended his arm to take a photo of them just where the last light of sunset was hitting them and they looked to the lens and smiled as he took the shot. The film developed but before he could take the print out to shake it, she’d put a hand against his cheek and brought him down for another kiss to which he could only press the trigger of the Polaroid again.

Security came to ruin the moment about eight seconds later to remind them that their fifteen minutes was now down to three.

 

* * *

 

 

The car ride back to London, more or less, went by the same way. Though they were secret smiles and blushes and they had yet to discuss what had just transpired between them, they were also exhausted— Clara, more so than he was. A few minutes left into the drive, she’d stirred awake and checked the time only to find that it was nearly 1 in the morning.

The quiet between them, usually so comfortable, was now tinged with too many words unsaid. They both knew it; there were words lodged in their throats, begging to be said aloud, but neither of them found it to be the right time or place or could even find the right order in which to say them. And so, it came to Clara to say:

“I can get you your check by Monday, is that okay?”

“Check?”

“Unless you went out of your way to come with me to bloody Wales out of the sheer goodness of your heart?”

He scoffed.

“Thought not.”

“But I don’t want your money.”

She glanced at him, eyeing him up and down. She pressed her tongue against the wall of her cheek and she smiled.

“Down, boy. You haven’t quite earned that quite of favour from me just yet.”

“What—?”

“Never mind,” she said quickly, rolling her eyes. “What’d you have in mind, then?”

“I want a day.”

“A… _day._ ”

“A place.”

“Care to be just a  _tiny_  bit more specific?”

“On your shelves, there was a book. The one with the leaf in.”

“My mum’s leaf, yeah,” she granted. “Hundred and one places to see. What about it?”

“I want a place. To take you to a place,” he amended, gesturing impatiently with one hand as he kept the other one firmly on the wheel. “For your book.”

“Why?”

“I mean—it’s either that or a Ferrari. I’d like a Ferrari.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said and she rolled her eyes again. “Okay, I’ll bite. Where?”

“Not telling you,” he said. “It’ll be a surprise.”

“I can’t be gone for long—”

“It’d take a _day,_ Clara,” he said. “It’s just by the moors, a quick drive right out of London.”

"And where  _is_  it?"

"Wouldn't be much of a surprise trip if you knew where you were going, would you?"

"What if I don't trust you?"

"But you do trust me."

"What if I don't trust you  _enough?_ "

"Don't you?" The Doctor gave her a look – a quick one and though they were teasing, there was something earnest in his eyes. She couldn’t, just then, speak. "Unless you're just  _that_  friendly with everyone."

She laughed.

“Are you trying to be mysterious again?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you  _like_  it,” he answered—more grunted really, his brogue more pronounced just then. He pulled up to the driveway just by her studio and parked. “Just— just don’t even argue, okay?”

“Okay, okay. All right. I give up!”

“Good,” he said.

Together, they hauled her bags back into her studio and she booted up her computer just as soon as she could. When her last bag was inside, they lingered by her doorway and she could tell he was about to say something.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow around... seven?”

“Yeah, oka— hang on,  _tomorrow_?” From an easy smile came now her look of incredulity, lines forming between her scrunched up brows. “I can't! I’ve got work to do!"

"They’re going away for two months, aren’t they? Said so yourself. Isn’t like you’ve got a strict deadline—they didn’t even pay you!”

"But Doctor, I'm not—"

"You can afford to make them wait a bit then, can't you?"

" _Doctor—"_

" _Clara,_ " was his retort. And it was effective. She laughed and he grinned like he was proud of himself. 

"Fine. _Fine!_ " she finally consented, hands on her hips. "God, it didn't take long for you to get keen, did it?"

He couldn’t do much but grin at her.

"Do I need to bring anything?"

"You might want to take your camera."

"Always."

"No flash."

"Okay?"

"That's about it, I think."

"Is there going to be a lot of walking?"

"If you like."

"Will it be cold?"

" _Clara—_ "

"What— if you're not going to tell me where you're taking me, I'd like to be prepa—"

Deciding that he’d just about had enough of her trying to figure out his plan, he’d ducked down to kiss her. Also, he’d just wanted to kiss her again. He’d caught her unawares enough, that was certain, for she squeaked her split-second disapproval before she melted in his embrace, her hands on his arms that held her close. This time, he was the one who broke it off—and he had the care to look coy about it.

"Sorry," he said, though their foreheads were still against each other’s and he was still holding on to her. She cocked her head and smiled, the tip of her nose brushing lightly against his.

“Don’t be,” she said. "You catch on quick."

"I just—" he stammered, his hands on her waist brushing lightly against the fabric of her shirt as he spoke. "Just trust me. Okay?"

"Yeah, okay," she agreed, just a touch more soft-spoken than she was before.

"Okay. I'll— I'll see you later."

"Later," she said as he finally let go of her and she let go of him. He was just about to turn to leave when she called him back and said, "Doctor?"

He stopped in his tracks and looked to her. He hadn’t expected for her to reach up only to drag him down to her again for another kiss and he found that he was swiftly and contentedly becoming more and more acquainted with how the curves of her soft edges fit so firmly against the jagged sides of his. And she kissed him, closed her eyes, and sighed.

"What was that for?" he asked when they parted, out of breath. His eyes, gleaming.

"Just… making sure."

"Of... what?"

Clara looked at him for a moment—she looked at him like _that_ and considered, once more, her possibilities and her plans and how he’d come along and blew all of that completely out of the water. And her, with all of her fear of losing control—of uncertainty, she found that right then she wasn’t afraid. So when he asked, she could only smile at him for short blissful pause, before she answered,

"You."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed that chapter as that first kiss has been in my head for like... five months. Jesus. Also, some personal news. I'm severely depressed and it has been very difficult for me to work or basically do much of anything. Fanfic is one of my escapes and so I thank all of you for being so lovely and supportive of me.
> 
> One of the reasons why I've relapsed is because of my job which I hate... a lot and so I've decided to hand in my thirty day notice. I'll be unemployed after the 15th of March. Though **my fanfics will always be free and I will not profit off of them** , I've opened up a [**Patreon campaign**](http://patreon.com/owedbetter) where you can donate even as little as $1 a month- think of it like an online tip jar where I write you fanfics of your faves and in return, you could buy me a cup of coffee every month (sorry to sound like Wikipedia there, yikes!), in much of the same way you can support your favourite fan artists for the fan art that they do. (If you're interested in opening up a Patreon of your own, message me on [Tumblr](http://owedbetter.tumblr.com/ask) or [Twitter](http://twitter.com/owedbetter_)! We could both benefit from a referral... which would be neat!)
> 
> Anyway, my apologies for this long author's note and how long it takes me to update anything. I've got a new fic planned too (post-Hell Bent fix it, lots of angst and also philosophy) so that's in the works. Please consider supporting me if you like my stories and are financially able to! And, regardless if you're able to or not, I hope you have a great day! Thanks very much for reading my stories. :)


	5. Chapter 5

“ _Love sought is good, but giv'n unsought is better._ ” 

Olivia to Viola,  _Twelfth Night_  by William Shakespeare

  

* * *

 

 

There is no _one_ way to fall in love.

Some would say that you don’t fall at all—that that’s not the right metaphor. Falling involved a jump, a trip, or a drop from a high place; falling was a state of degradation, a collapse of something that had been built.

Love is in the landing—it’s a single dandelion seed finding home after flitting from place to place, carried by unfathomable winds, until gravity pulled it to where it was always meant to be. There is never a reason why. Love is where it finds itself steady, when it takes root upon the soil. When you get to that point, you’ll know that this has always been where you’ve been heading all along.

From there, love blossoms when it has grown.

Because you don’t fall in love, as Clara Oswald would soon come to learn. You don’t fall in love; you come home— _the long way round._

 

* * *

 

 

The skies above them bid rain.

In the farther distance was the crack of lightning like a camera flash, a grumble of thunder trailing right after. Patches of near-noon sunlight turned soft as it streamed through the veils of impending storm clouds.

You could smell it— the electric scent of petrichor permeating the air, mixed with wafts of evergreens and various trees—pine, oak, maple, and holly, just to guess the names of a few. On the floor were patches of green grass and fallen sunset leaves; the leaf-strewn path marked with past tire tracks that were the only evidence that people had been there before. Russet and gold, campfire-coloured leaves decorated the trees and littered the floor—the perfect picture of autumn. Her favourite.

Clara, the minute she’d gotten out of the Doctor’s car, was only too quick to snap a few shots to test the light about the place and readjust her settings as needed. (What self-respecting photographer still used automated settings? Or even used flash in daylight hours?)

Above them, the sky rumbled again. She aimed her camera skyward, treetops in varying shades of red framing the scene as clear blue sky and grey storm clouds married in the middle. It reminded her of his eyes.

“Going to rain soon,” she said, a small smile upon her lips.

“Looks like it,” he replied. The Doctor wasn’t looking at her, though. Or at the sky. He was rummaging at the boot of his car. Small metallic clicks could be heard as he fiddled but she didn’t notice. He continued. “We’ll be inside before it hits.”

“Inside _where?_ ” she asked. He didn’t reply.

She was in no rush to learn, though; nor was she in any sort of rush at all. The scene before her brought on memories tinged with sweet nostalgia. They were not her memories, though. They always belonged to someone else; they were always told to her secondhand, but her father had painted the image in her head well enough with his photographs and his stories that she felt, all these years, that was enough. The foliage provided her with the place that had only ever existed in the fairytales she used to believe when she was kid, in the 101 places where she’d still believed that true love was real and that it could still happen to her; she’d never dreamt such a place existed in real life, let alone that she would get to see it for herself, that it was just outside of London.

Just by the moors, so he’d said.

Clara didn’t realise the grin she wore as she recalled these happy memories of fairytales, her hands on her camera and her finger ready on the trigger, as she looked up at the trees. Her dark eyes were wide and bright, lashes longer than her daydreams.

“Where  _are_  we?” she asked again, still smiling. A camera that wasn’t hers clicked. Her head turned swiftly, attuned to the sound, and saw him with his own camera—an decades old Nikon, black with silver trimmings, an antiquated flash attached to it. Clara blinked at the sight and laughed. “What is _that?_ ”

“Something from a past life,” he said. He shouldered a rucksack and closed the boot of the car with one quick motion.

“Is this a photo walk?” she asked, grin never leaving her face, tongue between her teeth. He grinned at her in return.

“Come and see,” he beckoned. She practically skipped to his side and he led her through the dark path just between the trees.

Beyond the trees, the scene revealed itself to be one made for movies. Cinematically, it would be revealed from the ground up and so imagine it so—the ground, much the same as the entrance, until you saw the stone steps with moss growing out of cracks. On either side of the base of the stairs were two large, stone vases where vines, weeds, and white roses grew.

The steps then led up to a house—an antiquated old mansion straight out of a Jane Austen novel, genre-swapped with Agatha Christie. It was in various states of decay all around its walls and towers, but a blossoming of fresh flowers – white roses, lilies, dandelions, and stargazers – pierced through the stone and concrete, demanding to bloom.

It looked dangerous and mysterious, but also sad and beautiful; it was all Clara could do to look towards the scene with her lips agape, breath caught in her throat.

“What _is_ this place?” she asked.

“Caliburn House,” he explained. “Built some time before 1474. Legend has it that it was built around a magical wishing well, protected by a witch, and only the purest of heart could come near without dying at the sound of her ghastly wailing.”

“You brought me for a photo walk at a gigantic haunted mansion by the moors?”

“It’s more of a hipster tourist trap slash bed and breakfast now. You’d only really know about it if you asked a local or read an article or something somewhere. But we’ve got it to ourselves for a full day.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“The owner. She’s a friend of mine,” he answered. “Business has been slow for a few months now so she thought some exposure would—”

“Hang on,” she cut him off. She held him by his arm and turned him to face her. The Doctor looked at her and blinked his surprise. Clara’s lips were pursed, one hand at her hip whilst the other held onto the grip of her camera that hung around her neck by a strap. Her eyes narrowed up at him. “You brought me here to get free advertisement for a tourist trap?”

He tucked his chin to his neck and frowned.

“I brought you here because I thought you would like it,” he said simply. Truthfully. And to that, she had nothing to say. She pressed her lips together and rolled her eyes, humbled but refusing to show it. Perhaps even apologise or cough to remove the awkwardness, but he went to add, “The free press wouldn’t hurt, though.”

Double quick, she turned her head back at him and playfully punched his arm. He made a show of wincing and rubbing it.

“Come on,” he said as he waddled up the stairs, two steps at a time. After two steps, he looked back at her and saw that she was slowly to move, eyes still taking everything in. “You’re not scared of ghosts, are you?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she replied.

“Then what’s stopping you?” he asked.

Clara paused and looked around, chest rising and falling with her deliberate breaths. A moment later, she brought her gaze back up at him where he was looking at her, expectant. “Dare me,” she told him.

That took him by surprise and his eyes softened, an amused smile upon his thin lips and he said, “I dare you.”

Mischief sparkled in her warm eyes, emphasised all the more by the raise of her brow, as her lips formed a smirk and she ran up the steps to follow him. As they reached the first landing before the main floor of the mansion’s entrance, they paused to take a few photographs, by her instruction— her, of the scene and and of him; him, mainly ones of her.

“Is it haunted, though— I mean, _really_ haunted?” she asked.

“Most would believe it is.” The Doctor shrugged.

“And what do _you_ believe?”

“There are stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“In the late seventeenth century, there was a clergyman who swore he’d seen the witch himself about the grounds. Her presence, he’d written in his journals, was always followed by a dreadful knocking—like, and I quote, the Devil himself demanded entry into this world,” he said, gesturing along the grounds. The storm loomed nearer, hiding the vibrancy of the green grass underneath the shadows.

It was a spiel, she could tell; the words were practised upon his tongue and she knew the sound of a reiterated speech when she heard it. But there was something about him, in the way that he told stories, which was captivating that she awaited his every syllable with near bated breath.

He continued, “In the war—”

“Which war?”

“All of them,” he said, shrugging again. “Soldiers and American airmen sought refuge here with the then hosts. Lord Rich Idiot or whomever, nobody cares who.” He looked at her then, only to see that she was laughing silently. He smiled as he went on. “In 1965, they found a wall in the servants’ pantry made up of bricked up Spam tins, all with appeals to the witch of the well or the Caliburn Ghast, as some had come to call her. _For the love of God_ , they wrote. _Stop screaming._ ”

“Spooky,” she whispered. Already, she could feel her pulse quicken on her neck. “Was it any of it true?”

“Was any of what true?”

“The stories.”

“Who knows?” he said. “Some skeptics say the soldiers only, erm— _encouraged_ the rumour, as it were, as this was quite the remote area so they often, uh— it’s a popular place where they’d—where they’d bring their, er— their _paramours_ to the hidden rooms.” He was pale enough that if one were to look with a watchful eye, one would see the rise of flushing red up his neck and to his quickly heating cheeks.

“They boarded up the windows so nobody would see,” he concluded, coughing and rubbing the back of his neck.

Clara, of course, noticed. When he looked at her, her dimpled cheeks were rounded to the point that it was ludicrous, a glimmer of suggestion in her eyes that it made him feel a shiver run down his spine.

“And _this_ is where you brought me?” she said, lilt tinged with subtext.

“No, I didn’t—” he started but to his objection, she only raised her brows. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t until _you_ said it.”

He swallowed as he looked away. She pressed the tip of her tongue against the walls of her cheek, lips in an amused moue. The Doctor cleared his throat but Clara saved him the trouble of changing the subject.

“How’d you know about this place, anyway?” she asked. “Hipster spot, you’d said, yeah? No offence but you seem like you’re more punk rock than you are hipster.”

“I’m a friend of the owner.”

“What _kind_ of friend?”

“Not like that,” he grunted. She tucked in her lips to keep from laughing. “I was friends with the original owners as well. Her _parents_. I helped _raise_ her, practically. Her name’s Hila—Hila Tacorien.”

“You’ve helped people raise a lot of kids, then.”

“Sorry?”

“Didn’t you say the same thing about Amy?” she asked. He scoffed.

“I watched her from time to time for her aunt when she was out. Back when they lived in Scotland. Hardly the same thing.”

“You left quite the impression on her, though.”

“Always do.” He smirked at her and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Oh, shut up,” she said. “You said Hila’s parents were friends of yours too— where are they? How come they’re not running Caliburn?”

“Professor Alec Palmer passed away in 2012. Natural causes. Very peaceful,” he explained. Her expression sobered as he recalled this. As he spoke, they climbed the stairs side by side. “His wife, Emma, prefers the quiet as well. Lives in a little house along Exeter. I could introduce you some time. She makes great scones. Cuppa like you’d never had before.”

Her smile returned then, hearing the change of his voice.

“How did you know them?” she asked. They sat by the parapet, the stone cool where they sat; above them, the clouds loomed on slowly but surely. The Doctor set his rucksack down and took out a tumbler. As he opened it, smoke rose from the opening. She could smell the tea as he poured her a cup and she held it with both hands. Pursed lips, she blew the smoke away from the top and took small sips as he told his story.

“Professor Palmer was looking for an assistant in the papers about five years after he’d gotten Caliburn House in 1974. During the war, he heard the stories about this house and fancied himself a ghost hunter right after it. He couldn’t go back to teaching psychology and painting could only get you so far. Emma was his first assistant but she persuaded him to get more help.”

“And you volunteered? You must’ve been, what—eighteen?” she asked, her eyes looking away as she did her mental calculations. Clara, as always, spoke swiftly. Like her voice was running a race against her train of thought. “How’d you end up from Scotland, all the way down here at eighteen, looking for ghosts, during what? 1979?”

“Why are you so good at arithmetic?”

“Don’t know.” Clara shrugged and sipped the tea. “Just am. Answer the question,” she told him.

“I left my old ghosts back there at Lungbarrow,” he said. He looked down and swallowed. His shoulders stiffened and he trapped the tip of his tongue between his thin lips before he smacked them. He exhaled. “Needed something new,” he muttered.

“And Emma?” Clara asked. She handed him the small makeshift teacup from a tumbler’s cap and he took it in one hand and swigged it all in one go. He gave her back the cap and poured more tea into it.

“Emma’s a psychic,” he said. “An empathic psychic.”

“What’s an empathic psychic?”

“You know how a telepath can sense thoughts?” Clara nodded. He continued. “An empath basically does the same thing, but with _emotions_. She was the non-objective equipment, so to speak. To raise the spirit, hypothetically, so they could study it.”

“Did you believe any of it?”

He smiled a small smile and bowed his head sheepishly in answer. She returned the smile before her eyes narrowed as a thought came to her head.

“So hang on, let me get this straight… Professor Palmer,” Clara started, “—he _bought_ the house? _This_ house?”

“Yeah?”

“The gigantic old haunted house by the moors? The one dossers are too scared to doss in, the one birds are too scared to fly over; and he’d just went on and said ‘ _I’d like to buy it please, with my money’?_ ”

“Yeah he did, actually.”

Clara considered it for a moment of brief silence between them. Wind blew in from the east, cool and crisp. Overhead, the clouds grew darker with each passing second and the stone and concrete grew greyer and greyer with every gust.

“That’s incredibly brave,” she said, taking another sip of the tea. The Doctor smiled.

“You like it here?” he asked.

“I love it,” she answered, grinning. She downed the rest of the tea, jumped up, and tossed the cup back to him. He caught it, of course, and in quick series of almost reflexive instinct, she’d taken a photo of him at right that second. Clara chuckled and said, “Come on. Let’s have a look around outside before the rain hits.”

 

* * *

  

The land itself was vast in its expanse, as he’d gone on to explain, as it was surrounded by forestry that was acres wide and it would probably cost three lifetimes’ worth of paychecks now as _down payment_ alone but Professor Alec Palmer had afforded it after his war hero’s compensation just about four decades prior.

The air, in turn, was clean and one could taste the difference when one lived in a metropolitan, with hardly any exposure to fresh air such as this.

And where foliage resided, there also rested wildlife as they’d gone on to see the occasional doe, deer, and fawn frolic about in the shadows back to their herd, there were rabbits hopping back to their warrens as nature’s warnings of impending rain made itself known with each passing minute, their little noses twitching, ears high and alert, and greenery trapped between their little teeth. Squirrels scurried past them as they made their shelter up in the trees.

There were bird’s nests and beehives atop the tree branches; birds with bright blue feathers and yellow bellies taking flight whenever the Doctor and Clara Oswald came near; and bees buzzing about, minding their own business so long as they were left alone. And they were.

There was, too, a small manmade stone pond by the back with an aged, moss-coated fountain in the middle, where water lilies thrived and there was a paddling of little baby ducklings along the water. The Doctor had packed a few sandwiches for them both and he broke apart the bread of one so that they could feed the ducklings and their mother.

Clara mused how, when she was younger, she wanted to be a swan.

Her favourite part of the grounds, it had to be said, was the part with the flowerbeds that lined the worn parapet along the back.

The stargazers were, clearly, the main attraction though they flowered and blossomed with smaller lilies as well. But the pure, bright white of the stargazers with their vibrant pink middles commanded to be seen. Of course, there were weeds that grew abundantly as well and while the grass was neatly trimmed and mowed for the most part, there still were the ones that would not be cut down. Or purposely weren’t cut down, to maintain the haunted aesthetic for which this mansion was famed; they did not know, neither of them asked.

The pair’s exploration of the grounds was, of course, well documented as they snapped photo after photo.

Clara was, of course, significantly more liberal with her shots as she had the privilege of several memory cards that allowed her seemingly infinite takes where the Doctor only had but one finite roll of film. Though sometimes, they did bring out her Polaroid camera for quick instant photographs, though his were always more blurred than hers were. Hers were steadier hands, so she’d say.

Nature, however, would prove to be unmoved by their exploring as rain escalated from but a simple drizzle into an unrelenting, sudden downpour in almost the blink of an eye.

Before they could even think about running into the house, the Doctor set his camera into the rucksack while Clara did a complicated manoeuvre that involved shedding her jacket with only one arm at a time so that she could wrap her camera in it. Only when their gear was safe from the elements did they themselves run for cover.

By the time they both managed to pry the heavy oak doors open, they were soaked.

 

* * *

 

 

Inside, the pair was bathed in darkness.

They leaned against the door and instantaneously slid to sit on the floor. The roar of thunder rolled and rumbled and it made them jump for they could feel the vibration against them and they panted. And then they laughed ridiculously and together for several long seconds before he got up to feel around for the light switch.

“You really know your way around here, don’t you?”

When she spoke, her voice echoed through the stone hallways. The light coated them both with a dim orange glow.

To the side was a guest book upon a podium, and next to it was a table with a candelabra on top. Clara went to the former while the Doctor fiddled with the latter. She flipped through the pages until she reached the end, where she might sign their names. For the moment, she had not yet learned his proper name – after a while, one just stopped asking – and so logged them in as Clara Oswald and the Doctor in her neat handwriting. Her soaked hair dripped droplets of rainwater upon the book and blotted some names as the ink bled through the paper. She quickly closed the book on itself and turned to the Doctor, who had only just then found some matches and lit the candles.

“You were saying?” he asked, oblivious.

“I said you really know your way around here, don’t you?” she said – her lips pressed together in a forced smile that begged to be seen as innocuous, her hands tight around her leather jacket that covered her precious camera – as she rocked herself back and forth on her heeled feet.

The Doctor looked at her for a moment, brows knit, and he blinked furiously, as if trying to decipher this current expression of hers. He pursed his lips and, when he gave up, merely shrugged and gave her the candelabra to hold. He held out his hands for her jacket-covered camera, which she then gave. He didn’t understand her exhale of relief either.

“I spent about a year or two here with Alec and Emma,” he answered, after a while. “I left a few months after they had Hila. They had to move away to raise her.”

“Good choice,” she quipped. He stared and she clarified, “Not the best thing for a kid to grow up by herself in a gigantic haunted house, is it? Ever seen _Casper_?”

“The one where they could bring ghosts back to life and had a secret rollercoaster in the house?”

“That’s the one.”

“Good soundtrack,” he said dismissively.

“You are _such_ a snob,” she teased.

He scoffed.

“Come on, let’s get you warm by the fireplace.”

 

* * *

 

The Doctor led the way towards the living room and where there should have been a comfortable sofa and, perhaps, a coffee table, there were instead tables filled with machines that Clara couldn’t quite make heads or tails of, with toggles and switches and levers and gadgets and gizmos galore.

There was a wall tacked with aged photographs as well as faded graphs, newspaper clippings, and torn pieces of paper with little scribbles on them. She set the candelabra above a nearby table, a safe distance away from anything flammable, and looked closely at the displays.

She jumped when the Doctor managed to get a fire going and when the Doctor looked, she pretended not to have done so. He set his rucksack down and hung their jackets along some chairs he’d dragged near the fire. Clara kept looking at the wall of research and, when she turned, she found that he was no longer behind her.

“Doctor?” she called out, a hand closed to a fist against her heart.

“I’m getting towels!” he bellowed from somewhere close by.

Now, Clara Oswald wasn’t known to be someone who would scared so easily and yet, to be left alone in what was known to be a haunted mansion, while a fire crackled behind her as rain beat down upon the rooftops and walls, and the thunderstorm went on its roaring rampage—it was hard to ignore the prickling sensation at the back of her neck.

It was akin to the feeling of being watched.

While she did not believe in ghosts, and while she was not one who was sent into hiding at the first fright—the soundtrack of the scene set the mood well enough and she could feel her sped up pulse on her wrist. After all, wasn’t it in the basic rules of storytelling that splitting up whilst exploring a haunted house meant that a murder would proceed to start the whole plot in the first place?

This was not that kind of story, she told herself.

Though what _kind_ of story it was, she could not yet then say—for she could not say it was a _love_ story, could she? That would have been just a tiny bit too presumptuous and though she might be described as one to have a bit of an ego, she wasn’t the type of heroine who was prone to up her self-importance hyperbolically in the narrative either. Though she did like him—she liked him quite a lot and by the many times he’s kissed her and kissed her _back_ in but the span of a single day, she would say that he liked her too.

She rubbed her arms, warming herself up, while she waited and looked towards the walls to get her mind off of things.

On the walls were paintings – portraits and landscapes – in elaborately decorated antique frames. The colours were saturated in the soft glow of the fire and the shadows she made crept over the art as she looked upon them. They were in varying styles, which denoted that, for the most part of the collection, primarily two different artists made them—one with the initials of _AP_ ; the others were by one _GJ_.

Clara went to take a closer look when the lights above the living room flickered on and the Doctor returned with towels in hand. She jumped again, her jaw clenched, but her shoulders relaxed almost just as quick when she saw him. He had a towel hanging around his shoulders and his curls were in a right state of half-damp, half dry. She took a towel from him and went to pressing the soft cloth to her rain-soaked hair and brought her attention back to the paintings.

“These are beautiful.”

“Some of them were acquired before the war and survived. Some of them are Alec’s—he was a gifted watercolourist. Some are mine,” he told her, his voice dry and nonchalant. “It’s when I went to Glasgow School of Art—after my work here. Professor Palmer rang someone up at the school and got me in even if I didn’t have some of the proper requirements.”

He walked towards the wall filled with photographs and clippings and she followed.

“And what’s all this?” she asked. “His _ghost_ research?”

“Some of it. He spent _years_ researching all of this, trying to prove the scientific existence of the paranormal. And if there truly was a spirit here, a witch or some other— he wanted to know if there was a way to set them free.”

“How come?”

“Alec, in the war—he was a Major. Major Alec Palmer of the Baker Street Irregulars, the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare. Specialised in espionage, sabotage and reconnaissance behind enemy lines.”

“He was a _spy?_ ”

“Much more than just that,” he answered. “But in the war, he’d seen a lot. He’d sent a lot of men and women to their deaths, so he’d said. He’d killed and caused to have killed but there he was… years later, living after being surrounded by so much of the other thing. Stuff like that, it… it tends to haunt you.”

Quiet surrounded them like an embrace for the burr of his voice had taken a more somber tone. It was a tone that that spoke of his own grief; it echoed bulls eye straight into her own heart, for those who knew of loss and grief and regret all spoke the same language that nobody heard but those of their kind saw through each other’s eyes; it was one that said that his own ghosts might still haunt _him_ as well. The fire crackled like the room was clearing its throat.

“What about Emma?” Clara asked, “—how was _she_ put into all of this?”

“Emma Grayling was a code breaker during the war,” he answered, his back straightening and his voice as if he were declaiming like a glorified tour guide once again. “He’d sent a distress signal that got cut halfway through the transmission and only Emma could figure the rest of it out. She kept her tabs on him after that and when the war was done, she was near just as lost as he was so when he asked if she’d be his assistant, she said yes.”

“And did they get together before or after he bought the house?” she asked, a cheeky little smile on her face.

“After,” he replied, a small smile on his own though one could see him trying to suppress it. He went on. “They almost didn’t get together, really.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Professor Palmer… Alec, well…” he trailed on. Heat rose to his neck and he walked away from her as he spoke, as if needing to distance himself from the answer to her question. He set the towel down by his still damp coat and he fumbled, his hands gesturing everywhere, as he made his eyes look elsewhere as if he were suddenly interested in everything about the room that had no trace of her or her eyes that far, far too warm and far too kind and far too wide.

“He was quite a bit older than Emma. He’d thought she deserved more and was owed better. She deserved someone not as broken. Not as used. Someone without blood on his hands.”

“Well that’s _rubbish_ , isn’t it?” she quipped.

Clara crossed her arms against her chest. His head turned to her as if he were slapped, his eyes wide. She had not been looking at him as they spoke, too engrossed with the photographs on Alec Palmer’s wall of research.

She continued, “If they’re both perfectly capable adults who were in love each other then why would something as silly as _age_ be a problem?”

It took a breath or two before she realised the other equivocation of what she’d just said for it was spoken so offhandedly and so quickly – once again had her mouth run ahead of her mind, free of a filter – that blood and heat rose to her cheeks. It helped that when she stole a glance at him from the corner of her eyes, she saw that his lips were tucked in; his whole face reddened and his eyes were downcast; he had a hand reach up to scratch the nape of his neck.

“Told him as much then, too,” he said as he cleared his throat, regaining composure.

Clara looked away, lips pressed tightly together but her smile was irrepressible that her cheeks ached from the effort of trying to keep her mirth contained.

Their age wasn’t a topic that had come up in verbal conversation between them through the relatively short course of their still budding relationship but it would have been a lie to say that neither of them had thought about it at least once or twice. On their own, when they were alone at night, and there was nothing but the silence of the emptiness next to them to hold them and sing them to sleep.

And yet, when they lingered independently upon the matter, there bid the incessant questions: who set the rules for what was proper and what should be when they were of an age where they were the masters of their own lives? Who could dictate and predict what fickle hearts could be capable of?

Who could say that this was wrong due to something as inconsequential and subjective as age when they, two adults of sound mind together, fit so right?

Her exhale came to break the sunset quiet that dawned onto them on this night of their coming home; it was a quiet set of rests that was married to the harmony of the crackling hearth and what might as well have been a raging hurricane all around them outside—and outside already felt too much like a distant, foreign planet that was galaxies far, far away.

“Did he take all of these himself?” she asked, half-curious, half just wanting to have something else to say.

“Most of them,” he answered.

She nodded and looked towards the photographs again and yet, strangely, there was something different that coated them now. A film, a tinge, and a light of something else— the science of the electricity between them, nearly incandescent that the Doctor had to swallow what moisture had gathered in his mouth just to continue to speak.

“He taught me how to develop them right here.”

“How?”

“There’s a darkroom in—”

“This gigantic old haunted house by the moors has _a darkroom?_ ” she interrupted, her voice high. He could have sworn she was taller. When he looked, he could see some of her weight had shifted as she lifted herself almost on the tips of her toes. He raised his brows and smirked.

“It’s _just_ called Caliburn House, you know.”

“Not as catchy,” she retorted. Determined, she pressed. “Is there a darkroom or not?”

“Yeah, there is. Why?”

“Can we _go?_ ” she asked, grinning. “You were using film on that camera you were using today, right? Could you show me? Could we print them here?”

Clara turned completely to him then, turning him so that he’d face her, and with the way her eyes looked at him — wide and bright, with lashes longer than her daydreams — he could not and would not and never wanted to deny her anything.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

 

* * *

 

Safelight on, the darkroom was tinged solely in amber and shadows.

There were more photographs of Alec Palmer’s research here, taped and tacked to the wall or left to hang on some of the wires. It was mostly for the aesthetic sake of it all, Clara assumed, and it was a nice touch, considering the history of the house and the tours that now kept it in business. There was the faint yet still present redolence of chlorine in the room.

This was a rare treat, to witness the antiquated method of photography, especially for one who worked with the privilege of digitalisation. And while she knew the theoretical framework of how it was done, she contented herself with observing him as he worked with a watchful eye. They’d left their towels and jackets to dry by the fire and the darkroom was then just a touch too cool, thanks to the storm outside, but still warmer than being soaked in the rain would have been.

Her breath, she held in her throat nearly the entire time.

“This was one of Professor Palmer’s cameras,” said the Doctor as he worked with the film. He continued, “He gave it to me when I left. Parting gift, he’d said.”

“Was he your first wedding?” she asked, though her eyes were focused on the meticulous and purposeful motions of his gloved hands and his long, latex covered fingers.

Two minutes for the developer to react with the exposed silver in the paper’s emulsion, he’d said earlier. He rubbed his nose with the sleeve of his arm as the time came for the stop bath.

“No, they didn’t have a wedding. Just went to the courthouse,” he answered finally.

“That’s a shame,” she said.

“I thought you were tired of weddings.”

“I’m not _tired_ of weddings— it’s just—” she broke off. Clara licked her lips.

The 45 seconds with the stop bath finished and it was time for the fix for four minutes. It would make the images permanent and unalterable by light. While he worked with the chemicals, she watched and trailed behind him. He did not interrupt her or press, diligent in his task and more patient than people often gave him credit for; well… he was patient for _her_ , at least.

She continued, “People just don’t fall in love like they used to. Or get married for the right reasons like they used to.”

“You’re supposed to _be_ with one person and that’s it until death do you part. _That’s_ the deal. Now you’ve got couples tying the knot and then breaking up left, right, and centre; and they’re _rushing_ to marriage and rushing right _back_ to file for divorce at the first sign of a spat, it’s _ridiculous_! It’s _way_ too easy to get married to the wrong person for the wrong reasons these days and for _what_ , y’know? A lot of it’s a waste sometimes and it breaks your heart.”

“Isn’t that better for business?” he asked. Clara rolled her eyes and chuckled. She didn’t see how his jaw clenched, and how his shoulders stiffened at her words.

“And you said _I_ was the cynic,” she chided. “No, my family never did this for the money.”

“Why do you do it then?”

“Because love is a promise and promises are sacred. At least to me, they are,” she answered. He started to transfer several prints towards the wash, to remove the excess fixer chemicals. “So I do it for the love stories; that’s what I tell myself I do it for, anyway. The photos are memories filled with endless promise and so many promises made in between.”

He handed her some tweezers for her to help him wash the prints and they worked in silence for a few minutes, the work requiring concentration and precision for the time being. When they were done, she handed him back the tweezers and he set it aside. He began to hang up the prints on the wire when she continued to speak.

“People are always forgetting what’s important, I feel like; they’re always forgetting what they really shouldn’t forget about—the things and the people and the memories that make them who they are. So I immortalise the moments that should _be_ remembered in the hopes that the stories would stay. That once upon a time, there was a story told in each of these photographs, and once upon a time, these stories _meant_ something.”

“So you _are_ a romantic,” he said, a small smirk upon his lips. He ungloved his hands and put them away.

“So are _you_ ,” she countered, grinning.

The photographs began to show up properly on the prints, slowly fading in, and she watched as it happened. The Doctor watched her face, the safelight dousing her in red and darkness, as she did and she seemed not to notice him at all as she saw the first photograph become clearer and clearer.

It was a photograph of her—the biggest smile on her face that she had ever seen, looking up at what she knew to be the trees draped with autumn outside. Her camera was in her hands and she remembered when it happened. It was when they’d first arrived on the grounds, and how she remembered that this was a place she’d only ever thought she could imagine and never be in.

This was a place made for fairytales and she was in it; she was _in_ one as she began to realise just then. Her chest grew tight with the realization, her heart heavy in her chest as she rest a hand against it.Her smile fell and her eyes widened. Pupils, dilated. Her breath fell short as she looked at the single photograph of herself, looking the happiest she could ever remember being.

A single tear fell from her right eye and, altogether, the Doctor could not fathom why this was so. Was she sad? What reason did she _have_ to be sad? Had he done something wrong?

“Why?” she croaked, her voice brittle and breaking. “Why did you do this?”

“I’m sorry?” he asked softly, brows furrowed and mouth agape in his bemusement.

“The shoot, the photo walk, this whole _day_ ,” she said, full of emotion and with heaving breaths, “—you did it for me. _Why?_ ”

“I—” he started but he could not speak. His throat ran dry and the way she looked at him with indecipherable dark eyes that he could not make himself look away from, he continued with the only truth he knew how to confess.

“I thought it would make you happy,” he told her.

 _I brought you here because I thought you would like it_ , he’d said earlier as well.

All the days that he’d spent with her since they’d met practically flashed before her eyes and here came the dandelion seed’s landing towards its fated gravity.

For on this, their twelfth day together, the pieces of them fit right home and that’s when she knew it. She didn’t fall in love with him as it was no accident, this is where she had been heading all along—she found home with him; and he, with her. And this was where they planted themselves to each other.

So taken aback was he by this shift in her emotions that it took time for him to process her mercurial motion as he’d nearly stumbled when she pulled him to her, her arms swiftly wrapped around his neck; when she claimed his lips into a fierce kiss with her own, he could barely remember how to kiss back.

There was something different to the way she kissed him then and there was something new to the way he kissed her now.

When she kissed him, it was more than his lips that she sought; she’d reached for the softness of his still slightly damp silver curls, she’d yearned for the heat that was his racing heart when their chests were pressed together, she’d sought the hearth and tenderness that only coming home could ever provide. When he kissed her, there lingered no shadow of shame that weighed down his shoulders, there rested not even the remnant of the seed of doubt; her arms, the bliss of Eden after years and years of self-inflicted hell.

They kissed, both clamoring and clawing to feel more of the other. Her fingers were in his hair and she combed and pulled his locks as she kissed him. Underneath his breath, he grumbled like low thunder whenever she did, and their lips parted for but the briefest of breaths when he did, but they were joined together again just a split second later.

They whispered each other’s names against each other’s lips like a promise, in a language only their hearts could understand.

Her height had proved to be a hindrance soon enough and the gravity of them pushed and pulled at each other until she found herself sat atop the table, her body pushing aside the washing tins. Clara laughed and he laughed at the sound of her mirth and kissed her again.

A sound, a sigh – soft and sweet – came from her lips when he did. His hands were by her hips, the fabric of her blue dress rough, cool, and still moist from the rain; he hadn’t anticipated her rolling them against him as she reached up to kiss him harder and even more fiercely.

“Clara—” he murmured, breaking the kiss, as his instinct was to jump away at the notion of this kind of intimacy. His forehead against hers, he could not make himself move far enough away, especially when he was between the soft cradle of her thighs. He was not one for touch, he was not one who craved it—yet to look at her, to feel her racing heartbeat so close to his, and with eyes that spared him none of her desires— who was he to resist when this was something she wanted, and all he’d wanted right then was to give her everything she craved.

She looked up at him with half-lidded eyes and fluttered her lashes, lips kiss-swollen as she licked them. A hand to his face, his thumb lightly o’er his cheek; her breaths were slow and warm and deliberate.

“Please,” she whispered, and he kissed her.

His hands reached under her skirt and he pulled down her tights and underwear. Clara lifted herself just enough so that he could. The Doctor went on to kiss her cheek and trail kisses down to her jaw, her neck, and her hands were still in his hair, scratching and scraping and pulling where and when she could. The table beneath her creaked as he pushed ever so slightly but she only hung on tighter to him. She pushed away her boots, her socks, and all the rest of it with her feet while he busied himself with kissing her neck, her collarbone—making a round trip back to her lips to which he was warmly welcomed back.

“I don’t have anythi—” he started to say when her hands snaked downward his chest and to the front of his trousers.

“Don’t need anything if _you_ don’t,” she cut him off, and she paired the interruption with a kiss.

The Doctor laughed then, his eyes just as red and dark as hers were in the darkroom, and shone brightly as smile lines protruded from the sides of his eyes. She laughed right back, scrunched up the fabric of his shirt into a closed fist, pulled him towards her, and said, “Oh, come here.”

Their kisses were not just kisses for there rang the song of their laughter in between the smacking of their lips.

She unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers but before she could reach for him, he leaned down to kiss her neck again and he held himself away—hard, warm, and just out of her reach.

Clara groaned her protest yet the sounds she made quickly turned to moans when his clever, long fingers made their way between her thighs.

His skin was cool against where she was slick and warm. She gasped when he touched her and when he rubbed against where she was most sensitive, she cried out. The Doctor bit her neck when he did and she moaned again, her hands reaching for his own and she guided his fingers inside of her where she made him move, slow and steady. Her exhales were loud and warm against his ear and his fingers quickened his pace as he felt her start to pulse around his fingers. He whispered her name against the skin of her neck, and planted kisses that would bloom to bruises in the morning.

She clutched his shoulder with one hand, her other on the arm with the fingers in her sweet warmth. His thumb circled her clit and she cried out again, and gasped, and groaned his name right by his ear. When he felt her speed up against his fingers, instinct telling him that she was close, he removed them from her. Before she could voice her objection, he carried her with her legs wrapped around his waist and held her against the nearest wall.

Photos fluttered to the ground and the stone wall was cold against her back but like this, his heaving chest was warm and pressed right against her.

He kissed her then, her tongue making its way inside his mouth and it slipped against his own, in a dance he didn’t realise his tongue knew the steps to; but she led, while he led himself inside her.

She keened when he filled her, hard and warm, and she bit and dragged his lower lip. He moaned. Their foreheads against each other’s and he muttered words and promises they didn’t think they could ever say while their skin sang songs that every nerve in attendance in their bodies were raised in goosebump applause. The heels of her feet pressed against the small of his back and with every thrust, they both felt higher and lighter—like Icarus, for too long trapped in darkness, flying straight for the only warmth he could ever know and remember.

More photos started clattering down as they made love against the wall of the darkroom; their pants and moans were in a harmonious crescendo as they were about reached their shared completion, both struck by paralysing lightning bliss. Clara clawed at his back, thread from his cotton shirt catching in her nails, as he sped up, instinct taking over with his singular desire to be one with her taking over his entire being.

The screams and wails that ensued at Caliburn House that night was made by no ghost.

Outside these walls, thunder kept rolling and far enough away, lightning struck a tree and set it ablaze while in here, underneath the red safelights and the shadows, the aroma of chlorine now intermingled with the scent of sweat and sex—something had just taken root.

Something between them had finally, finally blossomed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the cheeky lil change in the fic's rating.

“ _I’m gonna be honest; I’m not a love poet._  
 _But if I was gonna wake up tomorrow morning and decide_  
 _that I really wanted to write about love,_  
 _I swear that my first poem… it would be about you._

 _About how I love you the same way_  
 _that I learned how to ride a bike: scared, but reckless._  
 _With no training wheels or elbow pads,_  
 _so my scars could tell the story of how I fell for you._ ” 

\-- From “ _Love Poem Medley_ ” by Rudy Francisco

 

* * *

 

Diffused morning sunlight bled into the room; the colour of the walls and the storm clouds made the scene appear as if it were drowned in muted shades of blue and grey.

As it is what happens when one wakes in a room that is not their own, the first thought that registered to her, as her sleep-kissed lashes fluttered awake, was that this was not her room. In what many thought to be a gigantic haunted house by the moors, Clara Oswald stirred beneath unfamiliar sheets.

They were smooth against the skin of her toes; between her thighs, she felt an ache and she immediately adjusted herself just so, so as to ease it. The aroma of fresh rain perfumed their surroundings. That is when everything else registered to her senses as well.

There was his arm around her that kept her close. In the light, she saw there were small patches of dried paint desperately clinging to the hair on his arms; for in the heat of the moment, in the darkness of it all, these details had been lost to her. Pale blue veins were prominent along them. Her arms were wrapped around not a pillow, she found, but a warm body next to her. There was sparse silver hair, curly and coarse and thin, on his bare chest, she found, and as her reach went ever slightly lower, she found the softness of his belly. He didn’t make a sound.

Clara exhaled and yawned. The bones along her back crackled as she stretched out of instinct and that was when she looked up and saw that he was already awake, watching her with a small smile on his lips.

“I should have known, really,” he said, his burr of a voice hoarse, low and quiet, almost a whisper but clear as day.

“Mmm,” she mumbled as she pushed herself up to meet him eye to eye. She brushed the tip of her nose with his. “Should’ve known what?”

“What you’d be like,” he teased, the beginnings of a grin starting to blossom on his features as he continued, with a pause for effect. “What with all those crazy positions you get yourself into just to get a shot—”

“Oh, shut up!” she laughed and pushed his face away from her. Colour crept into her cheeks as she felt the tingling warmth of her heated blood rise from the tip of her toes.

Her eyes shot open when she heard the _click!_ of her camera and the _tch-ksh!_ of the shot printing.

“Oi!” she jokingly protested but he only smirked, surprisingly relaxed with her, warm and bare in his arms.

“You’re beautiful when you blush,” he said.

Clara hummed her approval, the dimples on her cheeks showing as she grinned and buried her face against the crook of his neck.

“Just when I blush?” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin. For good measure, she tickled the underside of his jaw with the tip of her nose and snuggled closer to him as well.

“That’s a trick question and you know it,” he replied, adjusting as she moved. The Doctor moved his arm from around her shoulders to her waist. More tingles ran up her spine as he did this, as his touch was slow as it ghosted over her skin. She shifted her legs just so. “See? Look at that. Beautiful,” he added.

With his free hand, they watched the print slowly develop before their eyes. An aerial shot. Slightly blurry, as always, but her flushed laughter was captured all the same. She was looking away from him in the photograph with the sheets just barely above her breasts and her hair framed her face like wild sunbeams. The pale blues and greys of the room, the crisp white of the pillows beneath them, the touch of pink on her face—a romantic photograph if she’s ever seen one.

He was in the shot as well, of course, but he was too out of focus. Clara peppered his jaw with kisses and he let her. The Doctor looked down at her, his eyes brighter and bluer than any cloudless morning sky; his pupils, dilated and bliss-blown. He asked, “Can I keep this?”

“Sure,” she replied, her regular voice still slurred with sleep. She added, for good measure, “What for?”

“I’d like to paint it,” he said.

“You want to _paint_ me?”

“Yes.”

“This wasn’t just a ploy so you could get a nude model, was it?” she teased.

For the first time that day, his brows knit together. His eyes were wide in alarm and it was his turn to blush. _There he is,_ she thought. The Doctor started to stammer, “What—no, I—”

“’Cause, you know…” she said, cutting him off and not listening to him at all. Without warning, she lifted herself up and swung her leg over so as to straddle him. The sheets fell back behind her and the pair of them were as bare as flesh just breathed from clay. She brushed her unkempt hair back with her fingers and his hands found themselves by her hips, holding her there. Clara cocked a brow and smirked. “You only had to ask.”

His heart very suddenly quickened in its pace and his breath hitched as he swallowed. Before he could properly react or protest, she reached for the bedside table where her own camera was, sat back up on top of him, and took a quick series of snapshots.

“Oh, you are _beautiful_ when you blush,” she echoed.

“Just when I blush?” he retorted, raising a brow too.

“Cheeky,” she replied.

Clara bit her lip as he licked his. His hands were still on her hips so she took a few more photos of him. Her hips were grinding against his, the slick warmth between her legs rubbing against his presently soft but hardening bare flesh. He swallowed and pushed himself up the bed, his grip on her tightening, his nails scraping against her flesh as her sinful motions moved him.

And as he reacted, he heard click after click after click. She adjusted her lens every other shot, capturing his ascension to carnal bliss in every angle.

Finally, she set camera down beside them. She could already feel the pulsing between her thighs. At that, he sat straight up. Hand against the back of her head, he pulled her to him for a kiss, heated and deep upon contact. They moaned into each other as she kept up with her grinding and he felt her slick, silky skin; he grew harder and harder. Her fingers scraped and pulled at his silver curls while his coarse, painter’s hands massaged her sides, her breasts.

With a moan and a sigh, she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down to the bed, antique springs creaking loudly in protest.

“Stay down,” she commanded, grinning and breathless. Clara rose ever just so and reached for him, her strokes making him stand at attention, and she sank down on him, achingly slow.

“Oh, _Christ_ , that’s good,” she muttered, her voice high.

He replied with a whisper of her name. He threw his head back, neck and back arching to meet her movements. She was smooth as silk and as warm as home; the Doctor could only groan and writhe beneath her, his hands on her thighs now. And again did she rise and fall on top of him, sweet and slow, and she whispered saccharine sin between her throaty laughs as she rode him.

He swallowed, and then parted his lips as he watched her. His voice was caught in his throat and he could not look away from the sight before him, afraid to miss a single second of this miracle.

Clara noticed, of course she did, and she smiled—a wicked smile, with her dark eyes gleaming.

“Go on then, Doctor,” she said, her dulcet voice as seductive as she could make it. “Take a few photos for your paintings. I’ll show _you_ how many positions I can get into just to get a shot.”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time they finished again, the Doctor found himself momentarily alone, catching his breath, on a bed now littered with sinful polaroids atop rumpled sheets. A flush of water from a wall away, the creak of an old door opening, and the pressure of her wobbling, uneven footsteps on the floorboards later—and Clara was back in his embrace.

Rain began to fall once more and they were serenaded by the symphony of raindrops tapping on a windowsill. They breathed slowly, comfortable in their silence, content with the language that light touches made.

 _I never want to leave,_ said her fingertips tracing swirls against his chest.

 _To me, this and you never will,_ said the languid, barely there massage of his hand just below her breast, holding her to him.

When she looked up at her lover, she saw satiation in those half-lidded, bright eyes of his. Clara could not help but press her lips together in a smile, knowing she was why. The Doctor seemed to read her mind and mirrored her smile, which, of course, made her kiss him again—she couldn’t resist that smile.

It was a slow kiss, languid as their limbs still struggled to recover from their earlier exertions; slow and sweet once again. When they parted, Clara traced what skin of his face she could reach with the tip of her nose. The Doctor held her tighter and closer to him.

“Do you think we’re moving too fast?” he asked, quiet and almost shy, his lips just barely touching hers. Without opening her eyes, she grinned and replied.

“Come to think of it, we did just meet not less than two weeks ago.”

“Feels like forever,” he said. Clara laughed at the cliché and shook her head.

“No. No, it doesn’t,” she said. “It just… it feels, I don’t know…”

“Right?” he finished for her.

They were forehead to forehead. She smiled and nodded, her hand reaching up to cup his face, thumb brushing just below the lines under her lover’s eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah, it feels right.”

Like it hasn’t been forever, no, but it could be; and it felt like it was going to be.

 

* * *

 

 

After their day at Caliburn House, the Doctor and Clara had become nearly inseparable. He practically lived in her flat, as her friends (and sometimes assistants) were only too happy to point out, with only some odd days away to do who knows what.

She didn’t ask (and, perhaps, that was her first mistake) for she had only become too used to his presence that she felt like she already knew all she needed to know from him. He told her stories of some of his travels, of his life, while she slowly ran out of secrets of her own. Yet, some things remained unspoken.

Even when they should be (and, perhaps, that was _his_ first mistake).

It was four months later when Clara’s ever-reliable crew was packing up in pre-production for a shoot they had the next day. Journey Blue, who had found herself indefinitely kept in Ireland to care for her uncle, was not present but the Doctor remained to ensure that Clara would not feel the absence of one of her most trusted assistants more than she had to, as she stressed herself out over shoots enough as it was without her usual secondary.

“I fucking _hate_ gaudy engagements,” said Psi as he did his inspections of Clara’s new DJI Mavic toy. “Like yeah, okay, we get it—you’re in it for a bloody share on the fucking LAD Bible and fifteen minutes of being somebody else’s goals! Tag your friend, comment _OMG LET’S DO THIS_ , and forget about it two seconds later. Get your own dreams, for Christ’s sakes!”

“Oi,” said Clara, faux rebuke in her tone but she was smiling all the same. “Firstly, I can’t believe you just said OMG. Secondly, we get paid to _shoot_ , not offer life advice. They can be as basic as they like as long as they pay good money for it.”

“Come off it, Ozzie. You hate it as much as we do,” said Saibra, who was sat cross-legged near the makeup table, arranging her freshly cleaned brushes.

“Hell, you hate it more than we do!” added Psi, who winked at Saibra.

“Doesn’t mean I have to reject the work that pays my rent, now do I?” Clara interjected.

“Gaudy engagement?” the Doctor asked.

“Oh, yeah. This is all for an engagement tomorrow night,” she replied. “Nice enough bloke, I suppose, but it’s going to be _really_ sad and all kinds of awkward if she says no.”

“I’m pretty sure she’s gay,” the makeup artist muttered to herself, but loud enough that everyone in Clara’s studio could hear, which was her intent.

“Saibra, you think every woman’s gay,” Psi retorted. She shrugged.

“Don’t mind them,” Clara told the Doctor, rolling her eyes. He blinked his owlish eyes at her, trying to follow the conversation like an audience member would at a bizarre, three-way alien tennis match. “Anyway, he’s an old friend in the school I come to play substitute at sometimes. He used to fancy me.”

“Clara Oswald, you think _everyone_ fancies you,” said Psi, who manoeuvred the drone just by Clara’s head. She turned to it and cocked a brow.

“And I’m never wrong,” she said with a wink.

“How’s he proposing?” asked the Doctor.

“Bit basic, like I said,” she replied. “She’ll think it’s an ordinary date night while their parents and friends are hiding in the bushes somewhere. Ring in the champagne, out come the violins, meh meh meh meh meh. You get the gist of it.”

“He’s booked spotlights, hasn’t he?” asked Saibra.

“Yeah. Surprise mood lighting,” Clara replied. “Cheesy as hell but she’ll like it.”

“How would you know?” asked Psi.

“She’s as vanilla as _he_ is,” his boss replied with a shrug. “She’s the school secretary at Coal Hill.”

“Is the one who thinks ‘ _oh, I bet you are_ ’ is an actual pick up line?” he asked.

“That’s the one.”

“My mistake, then,” Saibra said. “ _Definitely_ a straight girl.”

Three of them laughed while the Doctor kept his silent smile to himself, happy to observe and simply offer help.

“What’ve you got against straight girls?” asked Psi.

“Nothing!” she replied. “It’s that they’re never against _me_.”

Clara rolled her eyes again and snapped her fingers. She wagged her finger at the pair of them and gave them a pointed look. “Oi. No flirting on the clock.”

“What have you got against those kinds of engagements?” asked the Doctor.

“Bit hackneyed, don’t you think?” she replied, nonchalant as ever as she sorted out the memory cards in front of her. “And besides, I’ve never liked public engagements. Too much pressure on the receiving end to say yes.”

“Wotcher, Doctor,” said Psi. “The lady’s giving hints.”

“Shush it, you,” Clara told him but not bothering to look. To the Doctor, she said, “Don’t mind him.”

“Not the marrying type?” he asked. To that, Clara looked up and smirked at him. Immediately, he felt heat creep up his neck.

“I’m not any sort of _type_ ,” she answered. “I just don’t like clichés is all.”

“Why are you doing this for this Danny bloke, then?”

“He asked, he’s paying, and I said I would. Does there have to be a reason?” Clara spun her chair to face him properly and crossed her arms against her chest. “I told him he didn’t have to do any of this to propose to her but he insisted. Said he wants her to feel special and between you and me, Danny’s always been a bit of a sap.”

“Which is why she never gave him the time of day,” Saibra remarked.

At that, Shona decided to peep up from the front desk and add her own commentary.

“And she set the poor guy up with the straight-laced gingersnap in the first place so he’d stop asking her out.”

“Yeah, I can see why she’d feel responsible to try and get him hitched as fast as possible,” Psi said, to finish.

“Oh, will the three of you sod off?” Clara said jokingly, fingers pinching the skin between her brows as she blushed. “Doctor, don’t listen to them.”

“I’ve learnt not to,” he said simply, shrugging.

“You’re welcome to help out tomorrow, as always,” she said, hope in her voice.

“You really should pay the man a wage if he keeps on carrying on like this,” Shona said as she leaned against the doorframe.

“He’s fine with it; aren’t you, Doctor?” Clara asked, but before he could agree with her, she went on. “He’s a great AD. Manages my shot list nice and proper-like.”

“I’m right here, you know,” he complained, rolling his eyes.

“Well aware,” she told him with a cheeky grin and a wink.

“You’ve scoped out the place, right?” Psi asked as he continued to play with the drone.

“Of course. This isn’t my first time,” Clara replied. “You get to play with the drone. Shona’s AD and cues the band. Saibra, you’re on Danny’s money shot. I’ve got Michelle.”

“Thought her name was Lacey,” said Saibra.

“You’re thinking of the other secretary,” Psi told her.

“The one we were with after Rita’s hen night?” she asked. “Oh, she was a fun one.”

“So was her husband.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Clara said loudly, hands gripping the arms of her office chair. The two lovers chuckled.

“Tables are a bit crowded,” Shona helpfully added. “Won’t that be a bit difficult?”

“Leave that to me,” Clara replied. She exhaled. As an afterthought, she smirked and added, “It’s amazing, the kind of shots you get when you’re on your knees.”

“Whatever happened to no flirting on the clock?” Psi said in faux disgust.

“Ugh, Clara. We don’t need details of your sex life!” Saibra said at the same time.

“We hear enough of it as it is!” Psi added. Shona tried not to laugh while the Doctor simply busied himself by trying to look as invisible as possible.

“Oh, piss off!” Clara said with a laugh. “I’ve had to deal with your _Roman_ shenanigans for long enough—you lot can give me this.”

The Doctor cleared his throat.

“As entertaining as it might be to help you babysit your charges,” he started. “I’ve got to get back to my studio. Show opening in a few days, have some pieces to fix up.”

“Oh, yeah. All right,” said his own lover. She asked, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll drop by for lunch. Don’t think I can go with you for the shoot, though.”

“Ah, shame. Always more fun when you’re there,” she shrugged. Clara got up from her chair and reached up to hug him. “See you at lunch.”

They parted and he leaned down to kiss her quickly, as she held him down by his zip-up hoodie.

“See you then,” he said.

“Walk home safe,” she said, grinning up at him as she kissed him again. And just before she let him go, she spoke again. “Love you.”

And just seconds after she said that, her grin froze. Clara was still looking up at him and her smile started to falter when he smiled, nodded, kissed her forehead, and left without another word.

 

* * *

 

The next day, when the Doctor did come around for lunch as he’d said, he saw only Shona at her desk. When he asked after Clara, Shona told him that she and the others had to run for a quick errand as something for the shoot had come up. Shona said she did not know all the details and when the Doctor furrowed his brows, she could not say anything more.

She would have called, he thought, but he did not press. She was stressed and it was a shoot day. It must have slipped her mind to call him. There were days when she even forgot to eat because she was so focused on her work, after all. He would have to call and check in on her later, just to make sure she’d eaten that day at least.

The Doctor went back to his flat and worked, eating a lunch for two by himself.

When she didn’t pick up that night, he felt the nagging at the back of his mind that there was something wrong. He reasoned that perhaps she was tired and only fell straight asleep after her shoot. Yet that night, the Doctor could not sleep easy when he didn’t know if she was all right.

The day after that, the studio was closed and Clara still wasn’t picking up her phone or replying to his messages. Anxiety ran through his veins as he kept trying to reach her, to no avail. Psi and Saibra replied in the negative when they asked if anything was wrong with her. Shona did the same.

In the days after that, he only ever saw Shona McCullough at Clara’s studio.

He asked after Clara and Shona gave him excuse after excuse after excuse. She was getting her cameras’ shutters reset, Shona said. There was an emergency photoshoot with some fancy wedding dress designer at a location Shona didn’t know, Shona said. It took him two weeks to finally catch on.

That was when he asked Shona, “Did I do something wrong?”

Shona sighed and dropped her shoulders in resignation.

“Not to my knowledge,” she said. “Best give her a bit of space. Let her sort herself out for a while.”

“Can you at least tell me if she’s okay?” he asked, heartbreak blazing in his eyes.

“She’s working,” Shona replied. He swallowed and shook his head. The Doctor sighed.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I can’t tell you anything more, Doctor,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He licked his lips and nodded in defeat. “Tell Clara I stopped by.”

“Will do,” Shona said.

The Doctor left the studio and Shona watched him leave, pretending to work as she aimlessly tapped keys on an empty Word document, until she was certain that he was properly gone. When she was, Shona left her station and stormed to the back where Clara Oswald was sat on one of her beanbags, flicking through photographs on her iPad.

“You should call him back,” Shona told her. “You _need_ to call him back.”

Clara didn’t reply. She only sighed, heavy heart in her chest, and curled up into herself even more as she looked at photographs. Shona couldn’t see but she was looking at personal photographs—ones from her childhood, and ones from before she was even born.

“For God’s sake, Clara!” Shona said, raising her voice. “Tell me he did something stupid or whatever and I’ll get off your arse about it, I swear, but he seems like an okay fella, he doesn’t deserve—!”

“I _know_ , Shona,” Clara said loudly, cutting the other woman off. Tears ran down her cheeks as she closed her eyes. She inhaled sharply and spoke again, softer and more restrained, that before. “I know he doesn’t. Just—just let me handle this, okay?”

Shona looked as though she would have had something more to say to that but Clara, with her big, dark eyes, pleaded with her as if to say ‘ _Not now. I don’t need this right now. And everything you’re about to say, I already know._ ’

“Fine,” the blonde replied as she sighed. “But next time he comes ‘round asking for you, I ain’t lying to him again.”

Clara nodded.

“I’m serious this time!” Shona said, sounding more like she was trying to convince herself than anyone else. Clara nodded again.

“Fair enough,” she replied.

 

* * *

 

 

He was mid-brush stroke when the phone first rang. He stilled, turned his head just so, and waited to see if he was only imagining things. He shook his head and tried to redo his brush stroke when the phone rang a second time.

The Doctor was not imagining things.

He dropped his brush and nearly fell over his stool in his haste to get up. The chipped mug holding his dirty paintbrush water fell over and spilled its contents all over the newspaper-clad floor. He didn’t care. He brushed his hands against his trousers and waited for a third ring. When it did, he picked it up immediately.

“Hello?” he answered.

Even he could not mask the fear in his voice, afraid that the other end of the line might be the bearer of some unfortunate news. He waited with bated breath as no answer came from the other line for a few seconds but he dared not speak again.

Clara, on the other end of the line, was looking at photos of the pair of them on her iMac monitor. Her studio was shrouded in darkness as Shona had left hours ago.

“Hi,” she managed to breathe out. “It’s me,” she added. “How, uh—how are you?”

“Good,” he replied after he swallowed a breath he didn’t know he was holding. After a pause, he asked her, “Are you okay?”

“Totally,” she answered too quickly. A pathetic lie that even a blind man could see through. “Totally fine. Peachy keen.”

“Okay,” he said tentatively, his voice wary; his words, precise. “Is there any reason why you called?”

“Why I called?” she asked, her voice rose by an octave as it did when she was nervous. Clara swallowed. “Right. I, uh—I was wondering if I could come over?”

The Doctor blinked and rested a hand, and his weight, on the table. He licked his lips.

“Clara, are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, voice full of concern.

“Yeah, I’m—” she said but her traitorous voice broke as she spoke. She could not continue and she choked back a sob. “No. No, I’m not, Doctor, and I really just want to see you.”

“I can come over—” he said, but she cut him off too quickly.

“No,” she said. “No, I don’t want to be at my mine right now.”

“I can pick you up?” he offered.

“No, don’t be silly,” she said, a weak laugh coming out of her. “It’s a quick walk, innit?”

“Clara, it’s late—”

“I’ll take my bike. Don’t worry about it,” she said, running a sleeve by her cupid’s bow as she sniffed her tears back. Almost jokingly, she asked, “Just to be clear, you’re all right with me coming over, right?”

“Of course,” he said, gentle and soft. And right then, she nearly burst into tears.

“Okay,” she said, breathless. “Okay, then. I’ll, uh—see you in a bit?”

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was an hour later that he heard a knock at his door.

He didn’t think she would get lost but in hindsight, it was ludicrous that she had never been to his flat in the time they’ve been seeing each other. He noted that she forgot to ask him for his address during their phone call so he texted it to her just a few minutes after their call.

He was just about the call her when she knocked and he sighed in relief. He opened the door to find her on his front porch with a basket with wine, berries, cheese, and a day-old baguette inside. There was a sticker against the clingwrap that held it all together—it said ‘ _I’M SORRY_ ’.

“Hi,” she said. He looked her up and down with worry-stained eyes and she had but a shy, small smile on her lips. Her eyes were cried out, he noted, and it damn near broke his heart.

Had _he_ done this?

“Clara,” he said, his features and posture, a portrait of confusion and anxiety.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said and he gestured for her to come in. “Yeah, of course.”

“For you,” she said, handing him the basket as she stepped into his home. He smiled just a little bit as he accepted the offering and even raised one of his expressive brows in jest.

“So you’ve not broken up with me, then?” he asked with levity in his voice, though he feared her answer in secret.

“Trust me, if I’d broken up with you, you’d know,” she jokingly replied, though she brushed a tear away with the sleeve of her coat.

“I put a lasagne in the oven a few minutes ago,” he told her.

“You’ve managed to make lasagne in the time it took me to get here?”

“You called an hour ago.”

“Oh,” was all she could say. “Oh, right.”

The air between them was awkward—the first time silence between them has been awkward since the incident at the beach, when she’d raised her voice at him. She wanted to smile at the memory but to look upon him now made her heart race, made her feet want to run away as fast as she could. But she remained where she stood, looking up at him while he looked at her, and after a beat, he broke the ice between them.

“May I take your coat?”

“Right,” she said, closing her eyes and forcing herself to breathe. _She was_ doing _this,_ she thought to herself. _It’s for the best._ Clara took off her coat as she nodded and handed him her coat. “Right, cheers. Thanks.”

He hung her coat up on the hook on the door. The basket, tucked beneath his arm, he placed on the nearby coffee table. Clara followed him around with tentative steps, her eyes barely taking in her surroundings as she wrote and rewrote and rephrased what she had to say in her head.

Finally, she said, “Doctor, listen. I, uh—I owe you an apology.”

“Hmm?” he inquired, pocketing his hands.

“You didn’t—you _don’t_ deserve what I did to you. And I’m sorry.”

“Clara—”

“No, no. Don’t interrupt. Let me do this,” she told him, her hands balled into fists by her sides. Clara bowed her head, her eyes shut tight. She grit her teeth and forced herself to speak. _Let me be brave,_ she prayed. _Let me be brave._

“ _Please_ let me do this.”

The Doctor looked at her, his lips parted and he blinked his confusion but he remained silent. As she spoke, he only responded with gestures of his head to show her that he was listening. Each of her words, he cherished like an evangelic would to gospel. He sat himself down on his couch and Clara, before him, paced as she spoke.

“I told you about my mum and dad, right? About how my mum and dad were absolutely _mad_ for each other. Proper true love if I’ve ever seen it. And I did see it. For _eighteen years_ , I saw it with my own eyes.”

Though confused, he did not interrupt. He only nodded, hunched ever so slightly to show her that she had his undivided attention. With what she said next, her voice broke and she didn’t quite know how to look at him. Though she tried to blink away her tears, they kept coming. Yet as she spoke and told her story, she found that she could not stop.

“So when my mum died… it _destroyed_ my dad. He hasn’t even picked up a camera since then. Proper thought he might die of a broken heart, even. That’s why I took over the studio. And for a while, I hated him for it. I was only eighteen and suddenly, I had to take care of my dad and myself and the family business and I practically arranged my own mum’s _funeral_ by myself while I was at it. Broke _my_ heart just the same; it was almost as if I’d lost both parents at the same time and I didn’t know how to cope.

And suddenly, off he goes to marry this awful, horrid, _wench_ of a woman just six months later and I barely even know what to do with myself. I mean—how could he _do_ that? Go straight on from someone as wonderful as my mum to _Linda_ of all people?”

Still, the Doctor did not reply. His eyes prodded for her to go on, though all he wanted was to go over to her and hold her in his arms. Make it so she never wept again. Clara gathered herself and took a deep breath, and another. She hung her head low as she continued.

“That’s when I promised myself that I wouldn’t ever, _ever_ fall in love like that. I didn’t ever want that to happen to me. So when I…” she trailed off and bit her lip. She looked up at him, her teary brown eyes locked onto his. He was crying too. Clara continued. “When I told you I loved you, and I realised that I meant it… I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared before in my life. You could hurt me, you could _destroy_ me, and I’d let you. And that _terrified_ me. Still does.”

“Clara, I would never—” he said suddenly, a tear running down his cheek as he nearly stood up but she cut him off before he could.

“You can’t promise me that,” she told him, crying freely now.

“But I do,” he said to her. “I would never hurt you.”

“But you _might_. You _could_. And I would _let you_ and that’s just the thing, I… I came here to tell you that I…” she trailed off again.

Her heart was racing in her chest, almost sure that it was beating so loudly that he could hear it from where she was standing. Everything about her coiled up inside and every fear willed for her to run away. And yet, she continued.

“That I choose this. _I choose you._ I’m scared-out-of-my-mind in love with you and I choose to be. If you’ll have me back.”

Her fingers fidgeted and fumbled just below her bosom. When he rose and approached her, she stepped back as her lower lip trembled, part of her afraid that he might cast her aside and that it was too late. The Doctor looked at her with those bright, pleading eyes, and she could not look away.

“Clara,” he whispered, both his hands reaching to hold her face. His thumbs brushed away the tears that ran down her dimpled cheeks. He kissed her forehead, looked her in the eye, smiled, and said, “Do you think I care for you so little that anything you do could ever make a difference?”

She choked out a laugh of relief and heaved. Her teeth chattered as her trembling lips broke into a smile.

“I love you,” she said, warm, dark eyes suddenly alight with a joy she did not know she would ever be brave enough to allow herself.

He rested his forehead against hers and brushed the tip of his crooked nose against her retroussé one. The Doctor waited for her shaking to stop and, slowly, her breathing calmed. Her hands reached up to hold his hands that were still against her cheeks.

One breath.

Two breaths.

Racing hearts slowing as they stood there.

The Doctor was about to speak when the oven timer caught their attention. He closed his eyes and sighed. She did the same. He saw that she was smiling by the time he looked at her again. So, instead of what he was going to say, he only said:

“Dinner’s ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner was a quiet affair.

There was a clumsy, quaint awkwardness between them as they settled into this new normal. They were like two inexperienced teenagers on their first date. Every accidental touch made the other blush, made the other laugh, made the other look away.

When dinner was finished, when the wine bottle she brought had been halved of its contents between them, he told her to make herself at home as he cleared up the dishes. She offered to help him but he would not have it. Clara wanted to argue but decided this small time to herself could allow her to compose herself into some semblance of dignified normalcy.

With her nerves sufficiently calmed, she allowed herself the privilege of looking around his home.

It was more spacious than she’d imagined. It was nothing like she would have imagined from the bright blue front door. There was a spiral staircase that led to what she assumed might be his studio or his bedroom. His living room, connected to his kitchen and separated only by a granite kitchen island, looked to be a hall of fame for the weddings he’d attended.

His shelves were stacked with books on multitudinous subjects from Physics to Picasso, photo albums, and dozens of framed photographs. Different brides and grooms but he was often in the background, with the same restrained smile that she saw in the photo she took during Rose and John’s wedding. There were other photographs as well, including some aged ones that intrigued her, for they must have been from his youth.

When she felt him walk up behind her, she granted him a look over her shoulder. It was also then that she noted that his arms were coated in strokes of paint.

“You weren’t kidding about being the Best Man at ten weddings, were you?” she said, crossing her arms against her chest.

“Why would I kid about something like that?” he asked, pocketing his hands.

“Don’t know. To seem more interesting?” she joked. He raised a brow at her.

“I don’t need to kid about anything to be more interesting,” he replied, almost smug. She rolled her eyes.

“What’s this one?” she asked as she reached for one of the framed aged photographs. It was a photo of him, clearly, but decades younger. His hair was long, wild, and curly under a little newsboy cap. He had his arm wrapped around a girl who was around his age, Cheshire grin on her features, with her dark hair in pigtails high on her head. “Is this you as a kid?”

The Doctor swallowed and grit his teeth; his discomfort, evident. She elbowed him playfully.

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. Not every teenage lad could pull off leather braces and knee high shorts. Look at you and your little newsie cap,” she joked. “And who’s this? First girlfriend?”

He looked away and pursed his lips; his silence, his answer.

“Oh, all right,” she relented, placing the photograph back on the shelf. “Talk me through the wedding ones, then. Which one was your first?”

“In contrast to popular belief, I’ve never been married,” he replied. Clara shot him a look, to which he only shrugged and started to gesture. “Unless, of course, you’re part a bizarre Turkish cult of middle aged women who don’t quite operate on the same wavelength of logical and rational thought as most civilised people—”

She blinked at him, decidedly unimpressed (though she could not hide that smile).

“Too much?” he asked.

Clara scrunched her nose and nodded, before she asked, “What’s with the ring, then?”

He licked his lips and pursed them before he swallowed and forced himself to answer. He twisted the ring on his finger—a ring on the finger traditionally reserved for wedding bands.

“A reminder,” he said.

“Of what?”

He raised a brow at her, his head turned just so (hoping that his levity might change the subject).

“Can a man not have his secrets?”

“I wouldn’t know; I haven’t got any left,” she replied. “Not any I keep from you, at least.”

The Doctor sighed in defeat.

“It’s a reminder of a mistake I made. One I promised to never make again.”

“Okay. Fine. _Be_ mysterious,” she relented, rolling her eyes once more. “So, which one was your first best man gig?”

“That one,” he said, pointing to an old photograph with a plain, thick, black frame. “Ian and Barbara. Met them in school. Well, they’re the ones who _kept_ me in school, really. I’d have happily spent my life hiding in a junkyard if they didn’t keep me in check.”

Clara picked the photograph apart in her head – the light, the angle, the wardrobe, the story he chose to tell about it, and why it was this photograph that he chose to put on display – so as to set the scene in her own mind’s eye. It was second nature to a photographer to do this and it told her so much of him. And there was so much of him to know, so much of him to love that bright-eyed Clara Oswald could not help but grin from ear to ear.

“Tell me about the rest?”

And with _these_ stories, he was only more than happy to oblige her. As he told her the stories, he pointed to their appropriate photographs on the shelves.

“Before Tenth and Rose, it was Martha and Mickey Smith. Before _them_ , it was Jack and Ianto, and I don’t think anyone who went to that wedding can remember anything about it. Jack likes his alcohol.”

“You? Drunk? I can’t imagine.”

“Try not to; I’ve been told anything you dream up won’t come close to the truth,” he told her and she laughed. He pointed to an elegantly wired frame and in the photograph was a couple taking straight out of the late 1800s. “Eighth and Charley was quite a small event but it had its charms.”

“Looks so Victorian, it’s lovely,” she commented. “Did you get to wear a top hat?”

He chuckled. “No. And you won’t see me in a top hat any time soon.”

“Even if I asked very nicely?”

He eyed her and paused, as if to consider.

“No,” he said again. She shook her head, grinning as she found herself rolling her eyes.

“Okay, so that’s Ian and Barbara,” she said, gesturing her countdown with her fingers. “John and Rose, Martha and Mickey, Jack and Ianto, Eighth and Charley; that’s five.”

“There’s this one,” he said as he gestured to a smaller photograph held in a commemorative frame—one of those photos couples put in her goody bags for guests when they leave. “Susan Foreman and David Campbell. Susan took an attachment to me unlike any of the others in the orphanage; she was one of the last I took care of before I went off my own way. And in a way, she’s like my daughter, a bit.”

“I’d have loved to have seen what you looked like when you first saw her in her wedding gown, then.”

“Me?” he asked, baffled. “Don’t you mean the groom?”

“No, it’s the fathers,” she replied as she stood up a little straighter. The playful gleam was back in her eyes as she recalled the memory.

“It’s a trick my dad taught me,” she explained. “If the couple getting married’s got a bride and she’s got a dad— _always_ take a photo of the dad seeing her in the dress for the first time.”

“Why?”

“He loved her first,” she answered simply with a shrug. “At least, that’s what my dad always said. He said dads always get a sort of flashback to when they first hold their daughters in their arms and then suddenly, she’s all grown up and about to start sharing the rest of her life with this one bloke or another woman or whoever and it breaks his heart to lose his little girl but at the same time, he’d look _so_ happy because she looks _so_ beautiful and the dad just thinks… ‘that’s my girl’!”

The Doctor watched her with a quiet amusement. A beat later, he responded with, “Your family _really_ likes weddings.”

She broke into a fit of giggles at that and struggled to compose herself after a series of sniffs, with her hand pressed against her chest.

“It’s in the business pitch,” she said, sass paired with a cheeky wink. “I can give you a brochure if you like.”

He leaned down to kiss her cheek. She had to bite her lip to keep herself from grinning too much—not that it worked.

“So you were saying?” she prodded. “That’s six weddings now.”

“This one’s Vastra and Jenny,” he continued, showing her a photo of a tall, veiled woman, with the other wearing a rather fetching, if dated, bonnet.

“Oh, I heard about them,” she said, squinting at the photograph to get a better look at the famed Madam Vastra. “Isn’t she a lady or madam or something and she married her maid?”

“Madam Vastra now and yes, that’s them. Best Man should have been their butler, Strax, but then they realised he’d have to make a _speech_ and decided, for the benefit of everyone involved, I’d be the more suitable choice.”

“How’d you end up knowing Madam Vastra anyway? Isn’t she a bit… recluse?” Clara asked (though the word she’d originally thought to describe the madam).

“She is but I’m… a very interesting man,” he replied.

To that, she raised a brow. He frowned at her reaction, confused, so she waggled her brows to make her point.

“No—no. Not like that,” he replied immediately, to which she ended up smirking at him and making a face, as if she didn’t quite believe what he said. “Honestly, _you’re_ more her type than I am.”

“I wasn’t saying anything!” she argued in jest.

“Well, you were thinking it!”

“How could you _possibly_ know what I’m thinking?”

“Because I know that face.”

She opened her mouth to argue but instead chose to purse her lips, look away, and try very hard not to blush—only for her to fail spectacularly.

“Fine. Go on, then.”

“Here’s Jo Grant and Clifford Jones’s wedding—” he started but Clara pointed her finger to him in the background.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“Who’s who?”

“In the picture,” she said. And in the picture, indeed, he was sat next to a man with a rather prominent moustache and beard. The pair was looking at each other quite intently and Clara was only too quick to spot it. “You two look quite _friendly_.”

The Doctor scoffed. “Clara Oswald, you’re not _jealous_ , are you?”

“I am not!” she denied. He, with renewed confidence, stood up a little straighter and grinned. “Okay, I did just tell you that I love you. I’m allowed to pry and be a bit jealous, aren’t I?”

“You don’t need to be jealous, I can promise you that,” he said. “He’s just an old… coworker.”

“Fine. Keep your secrets, daft old man,” she told him, as she hooked her arm around his. “Eight down, two to go.”

“And that’s where we reach the end of our tour because Donna Noble’s had two weddings,” he said as he pointed to two framed photographs with one bride and two grooms, her looking markedly happier in what looked like the latter one. “She and Shaun Temple here were having financial issues at the time and it wasn’t working out. Divorced him after a while and she met Lee McAvoy over here at a library she was temping at just shy of two years later. She’s quite happy now. Good job, husband that adores her, two kids, great friends.”

“How come they always pick _you_ to do it?” she asked.

“Be their best man?”

“Yeah, how come it’s always you?” she asked again. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re great with speeches and all the stuff that a Best Man’s got to do, sure, but I’d reckon they’d have caught on that you’ve done it a bit too many times… maybe let someone else have a go?”

“Don’t know,” he replied, patting the back of her hand that rested on the bend of his elbow. “Suppose it’s the only way they can make sure I’ll come to their weddings.”

“What— _why?_ ” she asked. “Oh, come off it. Don’t tell me you don’t like weddings!”

He smiled, but it was sad. Downcast. Like there was more to the story that met the eye.

“Something like that,” he said quietly. He did, however, turn to look at her, with mirth replacing that creeping shadow that loomed over him. “Some weddings have their charms, though, I suppose.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, biting her lip again, which made him grin as he leaned down to kiss her properly.

It was then that she realised and remembered that it had been two weeks since she’s kissed him, and the first time she has kissed him since admitting to him and to herself that she loved him. That, in itself, made it all different—so when her eyelids fluttered close and he pulled her closer to him, she realised just how starved she was of him.

It was that hunger, that desire that made her push him against his shelves. Several of his framed photographs fell over in her force. He grunted as his back met the lining of the shelves but he found himself too suddenly busy with his hands to complain as she practically climbed him, just to reach him.

“Clara,” he tried to breathe in between kisses—but she was relentless in her pursuit. “Clara, I’m covered in paint.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered against his skin as she planted kiss after kiss after kiss along his neck, his jaw.

Her hands were on his shoulders and they struggled to slip to the centre of his chest, so she might unbutton his shirt. If only she would stay still, but he had trouble keeping up his balance as it was, as he was too busy holding her up with her legs wrapped around his waist.

“Clara—” he tried again, just to at least slow her down, but as he managed to stumble them on his sofa, there was no stopping her. With her on top of him, straddling him, he lost all train of thought and there was only her weight, her warmth, her kisses, and her scent.

His hands reached beneath the hemline of her dress, where he struggled to pull down her stockings. However, she’d unbuttoned his shirt, down to his paint-stained trousers, and she pushed him harder against the back of his sofa, where she planted bruising kisses along his chest, alternating with her tongue running slowly against his skin, and he could only throw his head back at the feeling of it all and let her do as she wished.

Sensation ran up and down his spine and as he grew hard between his legs, so did she become warm and aroused between hers. The sweet scent of it was all around them. All he could do was whisper her name into her ear and she reveled in it.

Her hands found the zipper and button of his trousers, undid them as quickly as she could, and made haste with the motions. He was barely undressed, and her even more so, with her underthings just halfway down her thighs, as she would allow for she would not let him separate her from his embrace.

Clara freed him from his trousers and, barely stripping the pair of them of their cloth-made borders, he felt her surround him, and there was nothing else but this Clara-born bliss.

She moaned on top of him, keened profanity on her lips, and his hands snaked further up her body, up her back, pushing her dress up so he might feel the skin of her waist. He tried to lean forward to kiss her neck but she pulled him back by his hair, as she rolled her hips up and down, and rode him.

A wicked, salacious grin formed on her features at the sight of him, she let him—no, made him watch her face as she rose up and down on top of him, going faster and harder every time. Clara sighed and laughed when he moaned, his hands higher on her body now as he pulled down her bra, and cupped and massaged her breasts. She pulled at his hair again, leaned in, and whispered into his ear: “ _I love you._ ”

She nipped lightly at his earlobe and pressed kisses down his neck, then she ran the flat of her tongue up his neck just the same.

The Doctor groaned loudly beneath her, writhing and thrusting up forcefully, to meet her in the middle, and the songs he sang of her praises as she made love to him, he did not know he knew the melody to the first holy hymn ever sung in creation. It sounded like her name; just her name on his lips, over and over again. Tears sprung to his eyes as his insides coiled tighter and tighter, his release beckoning inside of him.

From the echoed harmonies of her own moans, she was much in the same. She cooed and sighed and pleaded.

Up higher, and higher, and higher did they climb until the stardust in their veins spiraled together and they reached that sweet, cosmic event horizon together—aftershocks of the explosion, creating galaxies in every nerve they didn’t even know they had.

All heaving, heavy breaths, he thought he saw the sun rise in her eyes, eternal promised paradise in her embrace; his gravity pulled her home.

 

* * *

 

By sunrise, she woke again in an unfamiliar room.

The walls were white but were decorated with paintings she had never seen before. Clara was laid upon a mattress that had no bedframe; it was simply rested upon the floor. Rumpled sheets gathered around her middle as she woke up, apparently having slept on her stomach. When she tried to lift herself up, she heard a shushing noise next to her.

“Shh,” he said. “Stay still.”

“What?” she asked, voice groggy from sleep.

“Good morning,” he whispered. “Please stay still.”

“What’re you doing?” she murmured with a groan, moving her head just so against the pillow, so that she could see him without moving too much.

“Sketching,” he said. “Now stay still.”

Clara chuckled and shook her head ever so slightly. She rested her head against the pillow and feigned sleep, with a smile on her lips.

“Have you painted me since that day at Caliburn?” she asked in near broken whispers.

“I have,” he said. The Doctor was covered by only his sketchbook on his lap as he drew her; his eyes, silver and green in this light, imperturbable and focused on her.

“Will you show me?” she asked, peeking up at him with only one eye open.

“If you like,” he answered, smiling despite himself. “ _And_ if you stay still. Give me five minutes.”

Clara huffed and closed her peeking eye.

“120, 119, 118…” she mumbled.

“Cheeky,” he scoffed. The Doctor sketched for an undisturbed five minutes, more or less, and she was almost asleep again when he finished. “There.”

Finally, she lifted herself up and rested herself against the wall. She scratched the back of her head and pushed her unruly, bedhead hair off her face with her fingers. After rubbing her eyes, she took the sketchbook from him and he slid down next to her, gauging her reaction.

“Is that _really_ what I look like?” she asked.

“To me, yes,” he replied.

“And what about when I don’t look like this anymore?”

The Doctor kissed the top of her head.

“Oh, Clara Oswald, you will never look any different to me.” She looked up at him, smiling. “Come on. You wanted to see my paintings?”

She nodded. After quickly dressing – her, in a nearby discarded button down shirt of his; him, in the nearest shirt of his that he could find; each of them wearing one of his boxers for decency’s sake – he took her further up his spiral staircase, where there hid his precious, spacious but cluttered atelier.

It was as one might imagine the Doctor’s atelier to be—littered, and holding far too much than one might think an atelier of this size could hold. Some canvasses were covered, some were not; many of them were recent paintings of her.

Clara beheld his pieces with wide eyes; her gait, slow as if on a tour; the blades of her fingertips, barely tracing the surfaces of his work.

There was one piece of a scene she remembered ever so slightly—it was her studio, bathed in the minutes after sunset, as she worked on her desk. There was another piece that was an abstract of strokes—bright autumn oranges, warm deep browns and highlights of sun-kissed gold. One piece brought back particular memories that made her blush and grin—her body arched back with a halo of wild hair framing her face as she was deep in the throes of passion. She turned her head to give him a knowing, smug look; he cleared his throat and looked away.

“I didn’t put that in my show; that’s for my, uh—private collection.”

She hummed her mirth and bit her lip as she moved on from the piece.

“I’m sure it is,” she teased.

Clara brought her attention to another portrait—one of them. He painted her with her eyes downcast, a small smile of peace on her lips, while was just behind her, with his gaze turned upward. Around them in the portrait, it was as though they were being showered in a backdrop of technicolour galaxies, shrouded and bound in the colours of the universe.

“Oh, I like this one,” she said.

“You can have it, if you like.”

“Can I really?” she asked, her voice high.

The Doctor smiled—his sharp features softening as he did, with lines protruding from his eyes—and nodded. She reached up to kiss his cheek.

“And what are you working on now?” she asked.

He led her to where he was sat just the night before—just before she called him. On the canvass was a half-finished portrait of her face (grinning as he’d just made her laugh—from that day at Caliburn), framed by bright, bloomed stargazers.

An obra maestra of whites, pinks, and browns—with strokes of pale blues and greys, like diffused morning sunlight just after a storm.

The centre of the portrait almost took the shape of a Victorian cameo, with petals falling and flying by some unseen breeze just on the outside of the circumference. Beautiful was an insufficient word to describe it.

So her response was confined to only that of actions as she pulled him down to her—ever quickly becoming more and more addicted to the taste and feel of him against her, with her, inside her—and when she pushed, as she was wont to do, she found that he pushed her back this time.

The soft flesh of her barely covered bum met his newspaper-covered, paint tube-littered desk and he set her on top of it. Paper crinkled as she made herself as comfortable as she could on top of it, while the desk creaked ever so slightly beneath her weight.

“No, no,” he whispered against her kisses, his hands brushing the hair out of her face and cupping her cheeks. “Let _me_ this time.”

And so she did.

 

* * *

 

 

They were not extravagant people.

They were content in the company of the other—sometimes, going on quiet, spontaneous little trips to the seaside or up north. But while they were the type to document their adventures and their travels through numerous photographs—they were not the type who felt the need to declare it to millions of strangers all over the world.

Her instagram feed remained decidedly professional. He remained decidedly without social media of his own.

So, their budding relationship was confined to be privileged information for the few who knew them personally and closely. This meant that, though at this point in their tale they were at the eighth month into their relationship, they were still new enough that they still made the confirmation of ‘ _yes, they were together_ ’ quite often. Theirs was a relationship that they delegated was not for public consumption or scrutiny.

And, perhaps, that was a mistake too.

While theirs was not a picture-perfect union all the time—for they squabbled and argued, just as any two opinionated forces might do—they came together just as well. Sometimes, she spent the day a his house if they wanted something quieter; sometimes, they spent the day at her flat and studio, if theirs were restless hearts and hands that needed to create.

It was three months after her confession to him, then, that a surprise client came through her studio’s doors—a man neither of them have seen in eight months. A man neither of them certainly expected that day, and yet he will find that they will welcome him just the same.

“Clara?” Shona called from the front desk.

The photographer and the painter were at the back of the studio. She was sorting her photo albums into storage boxes while he helped her fill new albums with prints. A vinyl record played softly in the background on this quiet day of theirs.

“Yeah?” she called back in reply.

“You’ve got a client!” replied the blonde up front.

“Send them ‘round back!” she hollered.

“Go on, then,” Shona told the client and he followed.

“Oh, through there? Right. Okay,” he said, breathless.

Nervous. He grit his teeth and shuffled his feet past the beaded curtains.

“Hi, Clara,” he greeted. Then his eyes went wide at the sight of her companion. “ _Doctor?_ ”

“ _Rory?_ ” the Doctor replied.

“Hi, Rory!” Clara greeted at the same time.

“Clara. Hi. Sorry. Hang on,” Rory stammered, his eyes wide while his hands were not quite sure if they should keep fumbling with each other or gesture between the two of them. “Are you two…?”

“Yep,” she answered, amused. “Have been for some time now.”

Rory stilled in his steps, his lips parted. He blinked and then muttered, mostly to himself.

“I owe Amy a fifty quid, then.” Clara and the Doctor gave each other a look at that but Rory shook his head and walked towards them, deciding to rub his hands against the sides of his trousers. He added, “Yeah, hi.”

“As you’ve said three times now,” said Clara.

“Sorry. Yeah, I— bit nervous but I need your help.”

“Sure,” she replied immediately. “What’d you need?”

“And why do you owe Amelia fifty quid?” the Doctor interjected.

“Doctor, not now,” she chided.

“Fifty quid’s a lot of money—” he argued.

“ _Doctor,_ ” she argued back.

“Yeah, sorry,” Rory explained. “It was a stupid bet thing at John and Rose’s wedding and we were all a bit drunk and—”

“Rory, stop apologising. Doctor, shush,” Clara ordered. “Now tell me what it is you need help with.”

“Right, right. Okay. Yeah,” he said. Rory Williams licked his lips, took a deep breath, and said, “I want to ask Amy to marry me.”

Clara and the Doctor’s eyes went wide and their mouths hung open. Rory swallowed and offered a shy, nervous smile.

“Will you help me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally did another update! So sorry it took me so long but I've finally gotten my writing groove back after a long, still-ongoing spell of depression. Reminder that if you enjoy my stories and would like to financially help my currently unemployed self, you can donate even just $2/month on my [**Patreon**](https://www.patreon.com/owedbetter). Hope you enjoyed this update! Please do let me know in the comments. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my friend Ana (@tipsypond on Twitter) for her help with this chapter.

“… _You came along and then the sun did shine.  
We started on our way._ ”

‘All My Life’ by America

 

* * *

 

 

Penny in the air…

In a hierarchical list of things she’d thought she’d hear that day, this was one of the last things she expected.

Looking upon the expectant face of her old friend, she had photographs of a much younger boy flash before her eyes. Sand-coloured hair in a dreaded, Brady bunch bowl-cut, beaky nose, and bright green eyes filled with hope. Quiet, polite, and already helplessly in love—little Rory Williams skipped the rest of them in their phases of uncertainty.

And as children, when they read the passages in the old book with the good word, it was Rory Williams who already knew what the words meant—and he’d grown to become them.

_Love is patient, love is kind…_

Once the shock settled with the dust, the penny dropped. Clara started to smile.

“Woah, woah! Hold up!” she exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. “You _what?_ ”

“Uh, yeah,” Rory said, scratching the back of his head. He shuffled his feet and looked at the floor, not quite knowing how to breathe or what to do with his shoulders—straighten them or curl them in on himself. He continued anyway, his voice quivering. “I want to propose? To Amy?”

“Well, I should hope it _is_ to Amy or you and I are having words!” Clara said, rushing over from the boxes and towards him. “Come here!”

He very nearly started to relax when Clara leapt up in his harms to hug him. He also very nearly fell over but Clara held him down to her.

“Now wait just a minute…” the Doctor interjected; the sorting of the photographs in the boxes, now forgotten.

“I was going to go to you next, I swear on it!” Rory explained as Clara finally decided to let him go, to turn to the Doctor.

She was still smiling, and at his reaction—she couldn’t help but be amused. It wasn’t as if he would forbid the two’s union but the way the Doctor currently fit into the equation was enough to make her want to laugh.

“Me?” asked the oblivious Doctor, gesturing to himself. “Wait, why—what would you go to me for?”

“Well…” Rory and Clara’s eyes met—her smile became a smirk between pressed lips. Rory pocketed his hands and continued awkwardly. “You’re kind of… the closest thing Amy’s got to a dad now? Sort of.”

Clara chortled—and tried to hide it as a cough. Rory then tried to amend it. “The whole ask for your blessing thing and all.”

She tries not to laugh, again, but the way the Doctor’s brows scrunched together in a frown—his look of complete stupefied shock—was enough to make her break control, and oh, how she laughed!

“I’m not her dad!” the Doctor declared, a warm flush rising to his cheeks.

At Clara, he yelled, “ _Stop laughing!_ ”

At Rory, who was much better at keeping the giggles at bay, the Doctor said, “That wasn’t what I was going to say!”

“Then what... _were_ you going to say?” he asked

“Marriage is a commitment,” the Doctor huffed, both hands in fists by his side, as he tried to reclaim his cool… to no real avail. But the words he did speak came from a place he hadn’t had the chance to visit within himself in a long, long while—in the shadows, where some of his unspoken secrets lived… where he prayed they would stay for all the rest of time.

“You don’t just rush into it because you feel like it—or because you’re bored _or don’t have any other choice!_ ”

“Doctor, I know—” Rory said.

“Even asking, before you take her down the aisle, you’ve got to be _prepared_ for the promise you’re making. And the consequences that come with breaking it,” the Doctor continued. “Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“Sounds like you’ve given this a fair bit of thought,” Clara quipped as she’d sobered once the Doctor got a bit more serious about this than she’d expected. Odd. “Anything you’d like to share?”

The Doctor and Rory exchanged glances—the wisp of an unspoken knowledge passing between the two men—and the Doctor could only swallow and blush. Rory grit his teeth into an awkward smile towards Clara, washing his hands free of a conversation that wasn’t his to start.

“Not in particular,” the Doctor defended. “I just—”

“Relax,” Clara said, breaking the tension that had somehow permeated the air between them all. She didn’t see the breath of relief passing from those thing lips—or, perhaps, didn’t want to see it.

This was not the time—but soon. _Very soon._

After all, nothing stays in the dark forever.

For now, she met it with forced light—a learnt levity, veering farther away from the road they’ll all have to walk eventually. (He wasn’t the only one who was good at running away.) Carefully constructed bubbly personality on the legs of a control freak, she touched the Doctor’s arm lightly and rested her head against him.

“Messing with you,” she said. “No pressure to pop it any time soon. Or ever, if at all! Trust me. I’m good.

“Anyway, Doctor—” she continued. “If there ever were a man who you could be absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent certain would keep the promise of spending this lifetime and every lifetime thereafter with Amelia Pond, it’s Rory Williams.”

“Clara—” Rory started, but she would not have it. One-track mind that she was, she kept them on her track.

“Oh, please. Spare me,” she said. “You’ve been in love with her since you were in the womb. Probably. You were writing your names in little hearts in the notes section of your little junior Bible back in Sunday school!”

“You remember that?”

“I think I somehow knew even then that I could use this information against you eventually,” she teased with a wink. A short laugh later, she added, “I’m really happy for you.”

“Don’t be happy just yet. She’s got to say yes first,” said Rory.

“ _She’ll say yes,_ ” she countered. “I guarantee it.” (She didn’t.) “Don’t I, Doctor?”

The Doctor shrugged as he gave her a look—she shared it, that smugness that radiated off him, and she knew he was happy (and proud) to simply watch her, for the most part, do her job. She gave his arm a quick squeeze.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence there,” she told the Doctor, flippant and with a roll of her eyes. “Anyway—I’m never wrong. Not about this. I do have a one hundred percent success rate with marriage proposals, you know. It’s on my website.”

“I know you do!” Rory said. He sat himself down the chair in front of her iMac. She proceeded to take the chair by her vanity table while the Doctor sat by the tables with the forgotten storage boxes. With his hands hung between his legs, and his head bowed low, Rory admitted, “I… I looked. I saw that you plan custom, fairytale-like proposals?”

It wasn’t meant to sound like a question, but it did.

“ _Please_ tell me she doesn’t know that you looked at my website.”

“No! I… I used my mate’s phone in case she saw my browser history.”

“Smart man,” said the Doctor.

“Huh.” A beat later, she asked, “You’re straight, right?”

“Yes?” Rory replied. The Doctor tucked in his lips, half-amused.

“You don’t sound sure,” she prodded.

“I’m straight!” he said defensively, voice rising.

“Pity,” Clara shrugged. “But! This mate’s phone that you used to look my website—she a girl?”

“No?” Rory replied and yet it sounded like a question again as his eyelids narrowed, not quite sure what this string of questions had to do with anything.

 _Maybe asking Clara was a mistake…_ he started to think, but Clara carried on.

“You don’t sound sure,” she said again.

“He wasn’t a girl!” he said.

“All right. Just making sure,” she said. Clara reached over to the desk and took one of her planners from the drawer and a tourist trap pen—one with a Union Jack body and one of the Queen’s Guards as the bit you clicked to force the pen out. She flipped through the pages and found the one she was looking for—the penultimate week of November. As she did all that, she spoke with a businesswoman’s lilt—all professional.

“Now, Mr Williams, I have a few conditions if we’re going to work together.”

“Wait—so… you’ll do it?” he asked.

“ _If_ you agree to my conditions… sure. My numbers don’t lie,” she said. “Tell you what – seeing as we’re old friends and all – I’ll do it pro-bono.”

“Clara,” the Doctor said in warning.

She threw him a look – shoulders up; lips, semi-pursed in a little pout; brows, up; eyes, wide (conclusion: trying to be cute to get what she wants) – and he could tell that she was enjoying this far too much. (This gave her a tendency to get carried away.) He knew that face. And he had faces of his own.

Head tilt, knowing smirk—paired with arms crossed against his chest.

“What?” she started, knowing full well what _that_ look of his meant. “Mark it as a charitable donation and I’ll get a tax break. Free advertisement if it goes viral. And you haven’t heard my conditions yet.”

“You make it sound so clinical,” said Rory.

“Just call me Doctor Love!” she exclaimed. A beat later. “Note: don’t call me that. Ever.”

The Doctor scoffed.

“You. Shush. I’m trying to close a business deal here.”

“You’re the boss,” he shrugged and turned to go back to sorting photos for the boxes.

“I’m confused,” Rory said—hands as if in prayer, with the tips of his fingers against the skin between his brows.

 _Bless him,_ Clara thought.

“Don’t worry about that. Or him. Just focus,” she told him. She flipped a few more pages to get to her planner’s notes section and clicked her pen a few times. “Have you got an idea for how you want this to go?”

“No?” he said. “I know I just don’t want to do the whole down on one knee thing in a nice restaurant with a ring in the food.”

“Agreed,” she said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “Boring cliché. Have you got a ring, yet?”

“No, but I—”

“Good,” she interrupted. “Take my advice right now before I forget— _don’t buy diamonds._ ”

“But I already looked and I thought—”

“Don’t buy diamonds,” she said more strongly and with conviction. “If you’ve already got your eye on a design or summat, then keep it and the cut and stuff; just choose a different rock. Trust me on this.”

“W-why?”

“The diamond engagement ring industry’s a scam. A diamond loses 60% of its net worth once purchased and taken from a jeweler’s, and the whole diamond ring ideology’s from a dated, viral advertising campaign ran by the De Beers corporation after sales fell post World War 2! Plus, diamond mines treat their workers horribly, and you really don’t want to contribute to that.”

The Doctor and Rory had both their mouths agape by this point but Clara, unaffected, went on. She spoke with a weapon’s swiftness—words shooting off like bullets from a machine gun, never stopping for consequence or breath. She kept going. As she spoke, she waved the pen back and forth between them and clicked the top intermittently out of habit.

“Keep the ring tradition, sure – Amy seems like the kind of girl who wouldn’t let you get away with asking for her hand without a rock – but make it a _nice_ rock. Amy? That red hair, that skin tone… I suggest a good topaz or summat—warm tones, y’know? Not red, though. Rubies are too bloody. I’d go for fierier, earthier colours if I were you. Like yellow sapphires! I’ve know some suppliers who’ll make you nice deal, if you like. Rare gems are a prettier penny than diamonds, yes, but she’s worth it, right? Plus, it’s got a better resell rate.”

Silence fell before them once she finally stopped. At the front desk, Shona snickered to herself, like she’d heard this all before—and she has.

“ _What?_ ” Clara asked, once she’d realised the two men were staring at her, gawping. She waggled her brows at the Doctor and pointed at her face, her pointer finger making little circles. “Oh yeah. Not just this.”

The Doctor made a show of fanning himself, mouthing out a ‘wow’ at her, and she could only chuckle.

“How do you _talk_ so fast? And how do you _know_ all of this?” Rory asked, flabbergasted and a little bit more than a little bit overwhelmed. “And why would I want to know how much I can resell an engagement ring for?”

“Well, you never know,” she shrugged. “We might go into recession someday and you might need to pawn it off for a bit. Rarer stones retain way more of their net worth than diamonds after purchase. You might thank me. Or not. But it’s a better option if you’re going for dreamy and original here. As my _professional_ opinion, of course.”

Clara shrugged, pretending to write something on her planner for effect.

“It’s not like I wasn’t raised in the wedding industry or anything. Don’t mind me.”

“I guess so…” Rory said, scratching the back of his head. “I mean, I understood like… five of those words, I think. I’m just going to nod and say yes.”

“Good man,” the Doctor said, not looking up from his photograph sorting. Clara chucked to herself.

“I… I just know Amy loves romance stories,” said Rory, trying to grasp at his train of thought back from Clara’s plethora of details that he hadn’t even thought to think about.

“Are we talking _Fifty Shades_ -brand of romance or little bit more non-abusive and vanilla?”

“What—!”

“ _Clara,_ ” the Doctor said again.

“Sorry!” she said. “Getting a bit excited. I just _love_ my job. Especially when it’s a friend’s. _Especially_ when they don’t know what—!”

When she met the Doctor’s eyes, she nodded and got the message without a single word.

“Okay. Getting carried away. Got it. Shutting up. Go on, then.”

Rory looked between the two of them and shook his head, trying to get his thoughts together. He breathed in—keeping as calm as possible—and spoke his intentions with as much clarity as he could.

“I just want the proposal to feel like she’s in one of those stories she loves. Something that’ll—I don’t know. Something she’ll want to write about someday. I want it to be really special for her. I want it to be… something she can tell our future kids and grandkids about in ridiculous detail, you know?” he said, even chuckling at the end, at the thought of him and Amy growing old and having kids and grandkids together.

It was enough to ground him back to the moment—this moment, and suddenly everything was clear to him. Why he came here to do—and why.

Rory breathed out and smiled. Nodding him to himself, he looked back up at Clara and found that she was watching him with a keen eye. Looking at her, he could tell that the gears were shifting and spinning in her head. Those big eyes of hers could not fool him and he knew she was decided—and that this little control freak had a game plan.

“Hmm,” she considered, thoughtful and stern at first but then it grew to a smile. “Amy’s a budding novelist, yeah?”

“Yeah?” he answered, mentally preparing himself for her excitement. Still just as wary as ever, but more ready now than he had been.

“Well… I’ve got an idea that’s been sitting in the backburner for a while. Haven’t had the chance to pull off something this… lowkey complicated,” she said.

“Lowkey complicated?” the Doctor echoed.

“Hush, you,” she told him. Clara went on ruminating out loud. “Might just do the trick, though. And it’ll take a while to set up. Bit of drama, bit of angst— _really_ good pay-off at the end, though… _if_ we all play our cards right. But it’s a guaranteed yes.”

“We?” Rory asked.

“Oh, this is a group effort,” Clara clarified. She pointed the tip of her pen at the Doctor and said. “Including you!”

The Doctor gestured to himself, and mouthed out a ‘ _me?_ ’.

“Yes, you. It’s your birthday next month, yeah? 23rd of November?”

“Yes?” he answered out loud. “What has that got—”

Clara held a finger up to shush him and the Doctor frowned—pouted, really. She kept her eyes on Rory.

“Okay, Mr Williams,” she said. “You’ve got yourself a proposal, planned by yours truly. My two conditions include one, you must do everything I say or else it won’t work. Two, I call dibs on shooting your wedding or I will be very, _very_ cross.”

“My head hurts,” Rory said, massaging his temples.

“Just go with it,” the Doctor quipped from the side, finally putting the lid on the storage box.

“Are you in or not?” she asked the groom-to-be.

“Okay,” he sighed a beat later. He exhaled and nodded, not admitting that his heart was just about to jump out of his chest, but he held it in. “I trust you. I’m in.”

Clara smiled and looked at the Doctor.

“Whatever you need,” he conceded, his hands before him as if he didn’t have a choice in the matter but she knew better—she never had to ask.

“Okay, boys,” she said, finally. There was a look in her eye, a smirk on her lips, and anyone who saw these elfin features would read one thing: there was a plan afoot!

“So! Here’s what I’m thinking…”

 

* * *

 

 

It was two weeks later that one Amelia Pond was sat atop her kitchen table, newly fried fish fingers (slathered in custard, obviously) on a plate in hand, that the phone in her pocket started ringing.

_Rory, perhaps?_

That’d be a bit too out of character for him, with how he’d been acting recently. She couldn’t quite figure out what was going on with him lately. The man she’d come to know (and love) was about as transparent as a really… transparent… _thing._ She didn’t know. But she did know that Rory Williams was see-through in her eyes; she _knew_ him, in any and every way.

The Rory of the last few days, though? Not a clue.

To someone she trusted, they might have known how much this change frightened her. There was something going on—she could tell. But what? She couldn’t even guess for all her guesses seemed hyperbolic. But to anyone else… she was just a girl in a kitchen who liked fish fingers with custard for some godforsaken reason.

_Strange Amy._

_Weirdo Amy._

She was used to that.

She took a bite of one custard-coated fish finger and chewed the favoured comfort food, sighing as it flooded her with nostalgic feelings of better days when she felt sure of herself and her life—days long past now, it felt to her.

Her phone rang again, breaking her free from her sombre pondering, and she set the plate down. Her caller ID showed an unregistered sequence and she frowned at it. But her phone vibrated again—a _third_ ring. Must be serious if the caller hasn’t hung up on her yet.

She brushed her fingers against her plaid blouse and answered it, mouth still full with fish finger.

“Hello!” she greeted, all suggestions of a grimmer mood hidden from the calling stranger.

“Um, hi?” said the voice on the other end of the line. A girl—a vaguely familiar voice, too. The caller continued. “Amy? Is this Amy Pond?”

“The one and only,” Amy replied. “Who’s this?”

“This is Clara Oswald—we… we met at John and Rose’s wedding?”

Amy considered it—the memory quick to come back to her mind’s eye and she recalled a relatively short woman in a pretty little dress, a comically large camera in her hands, yelling at one of her oldest friends. She laughed.

“Yeah, Clara Oswald! I remember you!” Amy said. “You were the photographer gave the Doctor a right bollocking. Good job!”

“That’s me,” Clara said on the other end of the line.

“How’d you get my number?” Amy asked.

“Asked Rory. We’re old friends from Sunday school. Bumped into him at the hospital before I got my annual physical, had an idea, and I asked him if I could have it.”

“ _Rory?_ ” Amy asked. Fear crept back in her bones but just as quickly as it snuck into her heart, she batted it away just as fast. The pause couldn’t have been more than a few milliseconds, she gathered. Not even a breath. “That’s… okay. What’s up, Oswald?”

“Well…” Clara started and bit her lip. “I’ve been kind of… _seeing_ the Doctor for a while now.”

Though Amy didn’t know, the Doctor was in Clara’s studio with her, watching the conversation unfold. He smiled to himself at the truth of her words – as if he himself still wasn’t quite convinced that this was real between them – and, of course, Clara caught it. She winked at him.

But Amy, who didn’t know, could only jump up from the table and clutch the phone that much tighter against her ear.

“You _what_ with _who_ now?”

Clara cleared her throat without making a sound, breathing deeply before getting back into her character.

“I’ve been with the Doctor for… well, about a few weeks after John and Rose’s wedding?”

“YES!” Amy exclaimed. Clara had to distance herself from the phone at the outburst. “Rory owes me fifty quid!” Amy continued, but then caught herself.

“Wait… does Rory know?”

“I…” said Clara, pausing for effect. “Well, I don’t know? Not yet, I think? We’ve kind of been keeping it a bit mum.”

“Got it,” she said. “He still owes me fifty quid when he finds out, though.”

“Anyway—Amy…”

“Oh, right! Sorry about that—you were saying about the Doctor?”

“Why does Rory owe you fifty quid?” Clara asked, just for the hell of it.

“Uh…” Her green eyes widened and she grit her teeth in a grimace.

“Never mind. Ignorance is bliss,” said the other woman. Amy sighed in relief. “About the Doctor… it’s his birthday next month, yeah?”

“Go on…” said Amy.

 _That certainly got her attention,_ thought Clara. She went on—convincing to anyone who didn’t quite know the master plan. The woman, after all, was an incredible liar. “Well… he mentioned how he’s not had a celebration of sorts in a while…”

“I like where this is headed...”

“I was wondering… I was going to, uh… hold a surprise for him? Nothing too big—just a few friends and stuff… and maybe so I could… I don’t know… meet them and whatnot? Finally be properly introduced instead of just being the short bossy girl who yelled at him that one time.”

“And you want me to help you with the planning?” Amy finished, her voice higher by at least two octaves.

“If you wouldn’t mind—” said Clara but Amy was already way ahead of her.

(Or so she thought.)

“Are you kidding?” she said. “I’m _so_ in!”

“Great! I’ll—text you my studio’s address. Can you drop by tomorrow?”

“You’re the boss, Oz,” said Amy. She bit her lip and smiled, fond of the thought of her old friend finally finding someone else who would actually be good for him, and she was relieved at the distraction.

The Scotswoman continued, as sincerely as she could. “I think you two are really good for each other, you know.”

That took Clara aback—and she didn’t quite anticipate how happy the thought made her. Of Amy, one of his closest friends, thinking she’d be good for him… it was enough to make this Lancastrian blush.

“Thanks, Amy. Means a lot to me. I know you two are really close,” she said in reply. “I’ll see you soon, yeah? Lunch is on me.”

“You certainly know your way to a girl’s heart.”

“See you then.”

 

* * *

  

“ _It is such a happiness when good people get together._ ”

Clara spun her chair, stir fry box in one hand and chopsticks in the other, to face her current companion, who found herself comfortable against one of the beanbags by her bookshelves. In Amy’s hands was her worn copy of Emma by Jane Austen, flipped open to the page where one of the sticky notes was poking out. The quote she’d read out loud was highlighted.

“More of a _Pride and Prejudice_ girl myself,” Amy shrugged as she put it back on a random shelf—the nearest one to her, as she gave her stir fry attention once more.

“ _Everyone_ is a Pride and Prejudice person,” Clara countered. “Emma’s more of an… _acquired_ taste. Which is why I like her so much.”

“But Mr Knightley doesn’t get a wet t-shirt scene, does he?” Amy argued, pointing her chopsticks at Clara, who chuckled and shook her head ever so slightly.

“No, but Mr Knightley _does_ have the most romantic love confession known to mankind, so far. And doesn’t muck it up the first time like Colin Firth does.”

“Colin Firth is everything good and wonderful and perfect in the world, you take that back!”

“For all his charms, I’m afraid I’m already taken on that front so I’ll pass.”

“ _Oooooh_ , the Doctor over _Firth_ ,” Amy teased in singsong. “You have _definitely_ got it bad, shortcake.”

Clara considered it for a moment and bobbed her head about in agreement. She made a face, a hybrid between a pout and a frown on her face.

“Fair enough,” she said.

Amy laughed and as Clara went back to her food, those wandering green eyes landed upon something shiny at the very bottom shelf. As if it were a secret. (but, in reality, was specifically placed there.) It was a large ring box with rows upon rows of bright, beautiful rings.

“Oooh!” Amy said, helping herself to the said ring box before asking. She put the box on her lap and lifted the lid to get a better look at the selection. “What’re these for?”

“Hmm?” said the other, as if she didn’t know already—as if she didn’t orchestrate this entire scene in her head and as if she weren’t completely delighted that it was playing out swimmingly. Clara shrugged and ate the last bit of the stir-fry before she responded.

“Oh those. Sample rings for a wedding proposal.”

“You do proposals?” Amy asked, impressed. “I thought you were just a wedding photographer.”

“I also _shoot_ proposals. Which usually involves being part of the planning. So sometimes I help _plan_ them, too—if the asker’s a bit too terrified to think of something original.”

“I was just about to ask if someone actually gets hired to plan those ‘rings in the cake’ proposals.” Clara scoffed. Amy smirked, then added, “These aren’t diamonds, though.”

“Diamond engagement rings are a _scam_ ,” Clara explained. “Everyone worth their salt in the wedding industry knows this—if you _really_ want to impress someone, pick a better rock.”

“Good point. I’m sold,” she said. Of course, the temptation proved to be too much and Amy gestured at the rings and asked, “Can I…?”

“Be my guest!” Clara replied, rolling her chair over across the room, to the tables where her cameras were laid out on a table. Her main Mark III was fitted with one of her macro lenses. There was a small blower, with an even smaller soft-bristled brush at the end, next to her gear. Heavy as the camera was, however, it was a familiar, comfortable weight in her hands. As she moved, Clara spoke.

“I’ve got a client who doesn’t know what to pick—can’t tell the difference between cuts and finishes, rose gold and white gold, et cetera. Kept the selection here to hide them from the future missus before the big one.”

“This one’s pretty!” Amy declared, picking one of the rings with the larger centre stones and putting it on. “With some work, this’d look a lot like a sunflower or something instead of… whatever this is.”

Clara rolled her chair over to where Amy was sat and she spotted the ring on Amy’s finger. The fit was a bit tight from what she could tell but she made a mental note of the fantasy. She took a photo of Amy’s hand.

“Oh, yeah! I can see that… with a decorative gold band instead of platinum? Beautiful. I’ll pass on the suggestion,” she said. Amy looked up when she heard the camera click and began to pose—duck lips with exaggerated hand gestures displaying the ring and all. Clara laughed and took even more photos of her new friend. “You like sunflowers?”

“They’re my favourite. Ever since I saw that one Van Gogh painting?” Amy replied. “I know I’d want this one if I ever get engaged. Well, not this one. But y’know. The fantasy version of this one.”

“Try to refrain from asking yourself, Pond, and put it back. We’ve got work to do,” said Clara, rolling back to the table to set her camera down.

“Fine…” the other woman replied, setting the ring box back on the first shelf she spotted. “So about the Doctor’s party…”

“I’ve already booked a venue,” Clara interrupted as she kicked her chair to roll on back to her work desk. She opened up the calendar app and brought up all her digital sticky notes. “It’s an art gallery space just near here. He thinks he’s been booked for a one-day exhibit. 23rd of November, yeah?”

“Classy! What’re you thinking, overall?”

“Just a few friends and… honestly, I have _no_ idea what else,” she said, biting her lip. Big eyes. A grimace that’s nearly a smile. She was going for abashed. “What do _you_ suggest? _You’re_ the one grew up with him.”

“Well…” Amy started. “The Doctor’s not really a party kind of bloke, y’know? He’d probably throw one for himself if he was like… dying or something.”

“So you think this is a terrible idea.”

“No, no! I think it’s a great idea!” she said. “Just not a total _rager_ , you know what I mean? No big fan of those either.”

“I didn’t picture him as a rager-type, no,” Clara agreed.

“Something… elegant. Something classic. Surrounding him in art is a good idea, and having him be with his friends and family so he can _show off_ …? I think that’d be best,” she concluded. A beat later, Amy suggested, “His friends and family are _my_ friends and family, though. Want me to set out the secret invitations? Be more sneaky that way.”

“That’d be great, actually. He hasn’t talked about himself much,” said Clara.

“That’s the Doctor for you,” she agreed. Amy poked around the remnants of her stir fry then, her addendum spoken more in a grumble. “He never runs out of secrets.”

“Tell me about it,” Clara sighed. “Okay. So you’re in charge of the guest list and… I guess I’ll take care of everything else!”

“Roger,” she said, angling herself just so on the bean bag so she could reach her phone in her back pocket.

 _Might as well start sending out the texts now,_ the redhead thought. Clara saw this and swiveled her chair to face her desk again and started to type a few reminders on her computer as well.

There was quiet between the two women for a few minutes until Amy found the Doctor’s text message thread. Reading through the last messages they’d exchanged—and the favour she’d managed to forget about promising just a few days prior—the turn of events got that much more interesting.

Her head shot up from looking at the screen.

“You know… the Doctor’s asked me over for the weekend before his birthday to help him with an art gallery thing. I’m guessing that’s _your_ doing.”

“That’s me!” Clara agreed, not once looking back at her companion, for fear of breaking face.

_Oh, how true that really was…_

“Want me to do a bit of snooping?” Amy asked, groaning as she stood back up from the beanbag.

“Can you say that again?” Clara asked, swiveling her chair just so. She had her head balanced against her hand and she looked to the taller woman—sly eyes, her smirk declaring impish context.

“Say what again?” Amy asked, perplexed.

“Snooping?”

Penny dropped. The Scotswoman laughed and, with a flourish, she spoke in her thickest accent: “ _Snoopin’!_ ”

Clara chuckled and shook her head. “I _love_ Scots.”

“Well too bad for you, Oswald! I’m… spoken for!” she said, showing off the engagement ring she was still wearing on her finger.

“You put that back!” Clara hollered in response. Amy stuck her tongue out and finally took the ring off and went to put it back where she’d got it.

As Amy did that, the shorter woman had no time to lose. With a quickly typed message towards the jeweler, Clara sent her email then dimmed her monitor. With her recon done with, she could properly pay attention to Amy now.

“You know…” Clara started as she walked over to the nearby fridge by her vanity table. She poured red wine into two glasses, closed her studio’s kitchen door with her foot, and went back to Amy. As she did this, she went on to say, “If you _really_ want a ring, you could give old Rory a few hints here and there. I’ve got a few helpful tricks…?”

“Nah,” Amy shrugged, accepting the red wine and taking a long drink of it. She picked up the Chinese takeaway box from the floor and resumed with messing about the food with the chopsticks, swiftly losing her appetite at the mention of her newly aloof boyfriend, coupled with the idea of marrying him? She suddenly needed chocolate with the wine. “I don’t think Rory’s going to ask any time soon.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not like… he can’t… or that we’re not ready or something, it’s—”

“You don’t have to explain. I get it,” Clara said.

“No, no you don’t—it’s me,” Amy admitted. “I don’t… I don’t know if I’d be a very good wife, you know? I’ve always been one night stand material or beard material or, lately, girlfriend material but anything more than that is just… scary.”

“I understand. More than anyone,” replied her new friend, and Amy felt a comforting hand on her arm. Clara added, “I’m sure you’d be a great wife, y’know?”

“Part of your sales pitch?” Amy joked.

“No, I’m serious!” she said. “Rory’s been in love with you for as long as I’ve known him in bloody Sunday school. I’m sure you don’t have to be anything you’re not; the man _loves_ you. Rory Williams’ singular wife standard, ‘ _if-you-like-Piña-Coladas_ ’ ad is A.) Be Amy Pond.”

“I don’t know,” Amy mused. “Maybe one day.”

“Don’t stress,” Clara said—more certain than ever that her plan was foolproof now. But this was a conversation that was getting a bit too deep—too close for comfort, as it were. _Veer away, Oswald. Redirect,_ she told herself.

“If you like, you could be the one who asks! I’ll even give you a discount for it,” she joked.

“Ha!” Amy replied. “There are three types of people in the world—those who ask, the asked, and cat people.”

_Perfect._

“Or dog people,” Clara added, relieved at the turn of the conversation.

“Dog people are always couples, though.”

“Touché,” she agreed. “You know, I’ve always liked cats.”

“No faith in the Doctor, then?”

Clara laughed— _coping mechanism_.

“It’s a bit too new to start thinking about stuff like that,” she said. “Besides, I don’t like to count my chickens before they hatch. _And_ there are couples who are both cat people so who the hell _knows?_ ”

“Here, here!” Amy agreed. She clinked her glasses together and Clara took a sip from her own glass. It only took Amy another long drink to have finished the whole, nearly-full glass, and exhaled a satisfied ‘ _ah_ ’ sound, before asking, “Have you got anything a bit stronger than red wine by any chance?”

“It’s four in the afternoon, Pond.”

“It’s happy hour somewhere, Oz.”

 

* * *

  

It was now only two days until the party—two days until the engagement.

Weeks of planning, recording, and even more planning…

Naturally, Clara found herself exhausted more than half the time, but all the while—exhilarated at the prospect of everything going right. There was a small, bright yellow ring box atop her desk, and everything she glanced at it, the thought made her smile.

But the peace was broken as her studio’s front door’s bell rang and she jumped to attention. She peeked through her beaded curtains and found a familiar nurse in his blue scrubs, still looking as lost as ever, walk in.

“Hi!” Clara greeted, before Shona could announce her new guest. “Right on time! Come on in!”

“Hi, Shona,” he said to the secretary before stepping through the curtains. “Hi, Clara.”

“Nervous?” she asked, swiveling her chair as Rory sat himself down one of the beanbag chairs.

“Yeah,” he admitted as his weight settled and sunk into the beanbag.

“Guessed as much,” she said. “Where does the future missus think you are right now?”

“Kept it vague, like you said,” he replied. “She’s with the Doctor right now, though, so I don’t think she minds. They’re setting up the gallery. She asked me to go too but—”

“You’re not comfortable with being duplicitous, are you?” she asked, chin atop her curled fist.

“Absolutely not,” he sighed.

“Good man. But it’s a necessary evil at the mo. The end game will be worth it, I promise.”

“You’d better be right about this,” he said, hiding his face in his hands then dragging his palms against his cheeks.

“Always am,” she told him. “And besides, you two are unbreakable. I know it. I’ve _seen_ it. I’ve never been more sure.”

“You really think she’ll say yes?”

“Positive,” she said. “Ah! And speaking of which, I’ve got the ring!”

Clara reached for the ring box on her desk and threw it towards him. He caught it with both hands and cradled the box as if it were a precious, delicate thing.

And to him, it was.

“It’s yellow,” he said, finally looking back up at Clara.

“Goes with the sunflower motif,” she explained. “Look inside.”

Rory gulped and, with trembling hands, he did as he was told.

Inside was the ring tailor-made for one Amelia Pond. The stone in the middle was dark brown, with smooth, bright yellow stones around it—cut like petals. When he took it out, he saw that the gold band that held it was designed to look like a stem of a flower that would wrap around a finger.

“Oh my God,” he said, mouth hanging open as his still shaking hands took a closer look at the ring. “Clara, this is—”

“I know!” she said. “That’s topaz in the middle. The petals are the purest yellow sapphire the jeweler could manage. Thought emerald leaves would be a tiny bit overkill. Technically, Amy even picked it out herself. It’s well within the budget you gave me—thanks to a little discount I pulled. The one she tried on when she was here was a bit too snug so just went a half-size up. My supplier’ll give you a free resizing if I’m wrong… but that’s very unlikely.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a really high opinion of yourself?” he asked, putting the ring back into place in the box.

“ _Well…_ ” Clara started, looking up into space as if she were considering the statement. When she continued, she was unapologetic with her certainty. “No one to my _face_. Isn’t like I don’t have the experience to back it up.”

“No, no. I trust that,” he said.

“I know it doesn’t make me the most popular girl in the sandbox, and that the whole self-loathing, ‘ _o woe is me_ ’ persona sells more than confidence and knowing your value does, but what can you do?” Clara said quickly, stretching against the backrest of her swivel chair. She yawned, and added, “Hate yourself just for the aesthetic?”

“Are… you okay?” Rory asked, raising a brow at her.

“Yeah, don’t mind me,” she chuckled. “Lack of sleep is getting to me, I guess.”

And when she mentioned it, Rory saw that she was right. Under her eyes were darker circles and more prominent lines born of fatigue—all of which she’d tried to conceal but even makeup can do so much.

“How far gone are you?” he asked her.

“Two to three days, give or take? I take power naps in between,” she admitted. “It’s just I’m having delivery issues with Will—”

“Who’s Will?”

“Go-to florist.”

“A _florist?_ ” he asked. “What’d you need a florist for?”

“Don’t worry, he’s got very cheap rates _and_ he’s a total sap.”

“I thought you were doing this pro-bono,” he said.

“ _I_ am—didn’t say anything about the rest of my merry men.”

His green eyes went wide and, for a second, he damn near forgot how to breathe.

“Oh my God.”

“Relax. It’s not much. The most you’ll be paying for is the ring. I’m pulling in favours for a lot of the rest of it,” she said. “Recommend Will for the wedding too, by the way. He and his wife, Vicky? _Great_ with bridal bouquets.”

“ _Oh my God,_ ” he repeated, not at all comforted by this new information.

“Pale as a sheet now, Beaky Boy,” Clara said, noting how he had blanched—colour draining from his cheeks. “Not getting cold feet, are you?”

“No, it’s not that,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m more sure now, more than anything, it’s all just kind of dawning on me.”

Rory leaned forward, hands as if in prayer, and looked at her with what she could only describe as terror in his green eyes.

“This is _happening_ , Clara.”

“Confirmed—actually, properly happening,” she replied, a smile of fondness on her lips as Rory came to this realisation. She quickly rolled her chair over to her table with her camera.

“I’m _actually_ going to ask Amy to marry me,” he said, gripping tightly on the yellow box in his hands.

_Click!_

Clara resurfaced from behind her camera as she stole a shot of Rory in all his awe.

“I feel like I’m going to have a conniption,” he said in retaliation of this stolen shot.

His eyes shot daggers at her with that glare but Clara, unaffected, only pouted and shrugged as she rolled back to her desk with her camera. Rory shook his head, sighed, and chuckled.

“I may have to take you up on pawning off the ring if this wedding gets me bankrupt.”

“You might as well go all out, while the pound’s still _slightly_ standing,” she joked. “Everything’s tit’s up if or _when_ Brexit goes full swing. We might go into another Depression. Who knows?”

“Right. _That’s_ happening,” he said, a nervous chortle passing through his lips. “You know River voted Leave?”

Clara gasped, not even hiding the horrified shock on her face. She had a hand against her heart. “ _Evan’s_ River?”

Rory responded with a tight-lipped nod, his jaw clenched.

“And Evan?”

“Abstained.”

“That is… you know, I’m not even going to _touch_ on that.”

“I like to pretend I don’t know it happened most days,” he agreed. Clara pondered on that train of thought for a while longer, but Rory broke through again. “Why do I feel like my heart’s going to drop and take off flying at the same time?”

“’Cause you’re afraid. But that’s okay. Because you’ll be fine, Rory,” she replied, a small smile on her face. “Everything worth anything is always on the other side of fear.”

“I hope so,” he said. “Have you got everything you need?”

“Just a few more bits and pieces from my end—you’re all good on yours. Just keep up the act—nothing too much though, that’ll make it too obvious.”

“I’m mostly taking more shifts at the hospital—and actually _taking_ more shifts.”

“Good. You’ll need that overtime shift money for a wedding,” she added cheekily. “Have you decided on themes and stuff for that, yet?”

“No, God no, not really—I’d hope Amy would take charge for that one, if she says yes.”

“For God’s sake, Rory. She’s going to say _yes,_ ” Clara said, adamant and slightly exasperated. “But anyway, I highly recommend a wedding planner. Not me, _so_ not my area—but y’know. Just a planner.”

“How about your step-mum?” he countered, smirking for the first time that day.

“God, no. Keep Linda far away from anything good that has ever been, ever. She’s like a Reverse-Midas.”

“She can’t be that bad,” he said, properly smiling now.

“When you’ve got to live up to a standard as high as my mum—you _are_ that bad,” she retorted, rolling her eyes.

Rory laughed, opening and closing the lid of the ring box still in his hands.

“I bet she’d be _really_ proud of you, you know,” he told her.

“D’you remember the bake sales the Church used to do when we were little?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Those cinnamon swirl cupcakes and banana cream pies your mum made were _incredible._ ”

“See?” she said, as if making a point. She gives Rory a look. “Linda only buys _storebought_ _cookies._ ”

“Ah,” he said in understanding. “The devil herself, then.”

“Ha!” she laughed. “She doesn’t even try! It’s been what—twelve years and she’s still as abominable as ever.”

“She booked you for John and Rose’s, though,” he reasoned.

“Yeah, okay,” she said, rolling her eyes. “One of the few decisions she’s made in her life that didn’t end in complete disaster. It happens once every time the planets align or something; she was _due._ ”

Rory laughed, hands back and forth between his hands, opening and closing the lid still.

“Oh, stop fiddling with it,” she told him.

“I’m nervous!” he said.

“I _know_ that but you might damage the screws if you keep doing that,” she retorted. “Tea?”

“ _Please,_ ” he said, bowing his head down low and sighing. Clara nodded curtly, rose, and made her way to her trusty little studio’s kitchen where there was always a ready electronic kettle with hot water whenever necessary.

“What’s your fancy?” she called out.

“Anything with milk, if you’ve got it.”

“I’ve got coconut, almond, soy, non-fat, skim—” she listed but he cut her off.

“Jesus Christ, Clara.”

“You’re in the posh part of Shoreditch, mate. Keep up!” she reasoned.

“Just regular milk, if you do that kind of thing here.”

“Coming up!”

Rory pocketed the ring box and stood up, peering through her bookshelves. Her books, notebooks, and frames were covered in yellow sticky notes—on the notes were words that he didn’t quite understand. Things like:

_Psi = Rain_

_Saibra = Flowers_

_AMERICA RECORDING!!!_ (Though this note was scratched out, for reasons Rory understood.)

But when he couldn’t quite decipher her codes, he looked at her different photographs on display instead. Most of them were old – hardly any of them of Clara, with the exception of two.

In one of the frames, there was a stolen photograph of Clara herself. It looked grainy and old fashioned—right out of a fairytale forest, a little photographer in the middle of a brand new adventure.

And there, in another new frame, was a polaroid of her with the Doctor. From the angle of the shot, it looked like it was the Doctor himself who took the photo. They were lit in soft but bright orange light, like a sunset, and while the photo was slightly blurry—it was a great photo, simply because of how blissfully happy Clara looked. The Doctor was frowning, of course, but those who knew him could tell between his frowns—when they were good ones, and bad ones. This was one of the former.

“You never told me how you and the Doctor got together,” Rory said after looking at the photograph for a while, hands in his pockets.

“It was sweet, actually,” she hollered from the little kitchenette, placing a few custard creams on a small plate as the tea brewed. “He came ‘round here a few days after John and Rose’s wedding. He says he wanted to make sure I’d deliver on time but I have the _slightest_ suspicion that he actually just wanted to see me. From there, it kind of just… happened?”

She added a tiny splash of milk in one of the cups, placed everything in a delicate serving tray, and went back out to her friend. He accepted the tea with thanks and she settled herself near his feet, on one of her other beanbags.

“How long have you known him?” she asked.

“Almost as long as Amy has but not quite as well.”

“Figure I might’ve met him a bit earlier if I’d stayed in up north, huh?”

“Then it might be creepy if you’d get together _now_ but you’ve known him since you were young,” he said, taking a sip of the tea.

“True,” she agreed, helping herself to one of the biscuits. The tray was precariously balanced atop one of her thighs.

“You like him, then?” he asked, sitting back down on one of the beanbags next to her. His limbs, almost hilariously longer than hers, were awkwardly placed as he tried his best to keep as much to himself as possible. Clara, on the other hand, sat as if on sidesaddle, all too used to the set-up.

“Very much. See that one?” she said, pointing to one of the photographs—the only one of only her. “He took me to this old house by the moors on our first proper day out together. He says he stayed there for a few years after he left the orphanage, he said.”

“Wow,” he said, taking another sip of his tea. “He doesn’t talk much about those years after Lungbarrow. Not to anyone, I think.”

“Really? Why not?”

“He had a falling out, sort of, with… someone he was close to,” he said, now practically hiding behind his tea.

“Who?” she asked, blowing the smoke from her tea.

“An old friend,” he answered. Cornered, Rory scratched the back of his head. “It’s not really for me to say, you know? But I know Amy was gutted when she didn’t hear from him for a few years after that. They all were.”

“Who’s _they?_ ” she asked.

“The others he left behind at Lungbarrow. The other orphans. And Amy.”

“Huh,” she said. She took a sip of the tea. “Do you know why he does that whole best man gig so much, then?”

“No idea,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders. He reached over to take a biscuit. “Everyone just kind of started doing it, from what Amy tells me.”

He took a bite of it and added, “I think it’s nice you’re doing this birthday thing, though.”

“Perfect timing for everyone, right?” she agreed, grinning.

“Never would’ve thought of it myself.”

“Oh, I know,” she said. “Have you got the ‘ _marry me?_ ’ spiel prepared?”

“Not yet. I was thinking of just kind of… winging it?”

“That’s actually a pretty good idea, believe it or not. Most people lose the plot on the spot and just end up wasting it. I’d recommend doing just an outline. Sticky notes help _me_ a lot.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he said, pertaining to her wall of books and aforementioned sticky notes.

“Have you tried asking the Doctor for help?” she asked. “I know best man speeches aren’t proposals, sure, but he’s good with this sort of thing, right? Plus, he’s in on it.”

“Maybe,” he said, looking away and taking another sip of his tea. “Yeah, I’ll ask if I’ve got the time.”

They sat in silence for a little while, enjoying the tea and biscuits and the quiet. Both of them, exhausted for much of the same reasons, but altogether different intentions.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked after a moment. “I mean—the whole… not telling anyone else about it thing?”

“It’ll make the party more believable if the main event’s a surprise for everyone,” she answered. “ _Plus,_ it’ll make for great reaction shots. I’ll make a blog post about it. It’ll be fun.”

“If you say so,” he said.

“You’re going to be fine, I promise. It’ll all work out _perfectly_.”

“I trust you,” he said, exhaling to try and calm his nervous heart. He finished his tea and set it back on the tray she still balanced on herself.

“Hey,” he said, reaching for her shoulder.

“Hmm?” Clara raised a brow at him as she took a sip of her tea, the bag still in.

“I’m really grateful to you for this,” he said, a small smile on his lips. “And I’m glad we got to catch up over these last few weeks.”

“Me too, Beaky,” she said. “Me too.”

 

* * *

  

“This good?” hollered one Amelia Pond as she struggled to hang a large framed painting up on the wall.

The Doctor nearby, was giving a long look at the last of the paintings just next to Amy that was yet to be hung. He was rubbing his chin as he did.

“Doctor?” she yelled again, exasperated as she her hands on either side of the frame.

He looked up, finally, at the painting she’d just hung. He considered it for a moment, and said, “Perfect!”

She groaned in relief as she finally climbed back down the ladder she was on. She wiped her hands on the fabric of her jeans and walked over to his side.

“Hey…” she started, pushing her rounded glasses up her nose. “Doctor?”

“Hmm?” he asked, pushing his glasses’ frames up as well.

“Have you seen Rory lately?” she asked.

“Not that I recall, no,” he lied smoothly, his face never once giving anything away. “Why’d you ask?”

“He hasn’t been acting… I don’t know… _odd_ to you, has he?”

“You’re asking the wrong man,” he replied. He put his hands in his pockets. “I don’t exactly _know_ what qualifies as odd these days. And besides, I haven’t seen him.”

“I don’t know. I just—” she started, pushing up her glasses again. “Doctor, I think he’s been avoiding me.”

“Now why would you say something like that?” he asked, not looking at her and seemingly keeping his attention at the painting in front of them. It was a painting

“He’s been taking more shifts at work. On weekends, I don’t know where he is—he leaves his phone at home and I can’t reach him,” she explained. “He _says_ he’s been out with people from work, A &E emergencies and stuff, but I don’t know… he’s just…”

“I’m sure everything’s fine, Amelia,” he said, nonchalant.

“But what if it isn’t?” she pressed.

“I’m sure it is,” he said, giving her a look, angling his glasses just to give it more effect—a look that spoke his almost-smug certainty. “This one’s the last one.”

Amy nodded and moved the ladder so she could hang it up. He walked toward it too and when she was in place, he lifted the frame to her so she could hang it in place.

“Now be careful with this one—remember, I used sand for these pieces.”

“Sand?” she asked. With careful hands, she held her breath as she set the frame in place and made certain that it was centred. When she was in the clear, she sighed and spoke as she climbed down the ladder again.

“But sand’s dry and coarse and it gets everywhere…”

“Whatever you say, Amelia Skywalker…” he answered, walking a few steps backward to see how it was hung. Again, perfectly centred.

“Ha!” she said with a mocking laugh, pointing at him. “ _Nerd._ ”

“You’re the one who likes the prequels,” he retorted.

“Hello! Obi-wan is a _total_ tall glass of water.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Why’d you need my help hanging these up, anyway?” she finally asked, putting her hands on her hips.

“I needed someone tall and unemployed,” he answered simply.

“I work freelance, you nerf-herder!” she retorted, elbowing him hard.

He groaned, rubbed his arm, and frowned at her.

“These pieces are pretty cool,” she said. “More abstract than your usual, though.”

And to anyone who knew the Doctor’s art style, these were very much unlike his other pieces. Others were simple squares of coloured sand while others had some sort of gradient to them. Still, most of them were just… _sand_. Why, she couldn’t tell, but she wasn’t the master artist of the two of them.

“I’m branching out,” was all he said in answer.

“Inspired?” she asked, poking his arm. The Doctor raised a brow at her in questioning—another pointed look on his face. She went on. “You know… like a… special someone might be inspiring your creative mojo or something? Anything you want to _share?_ ”

He closed his eyes, looked away, pushed up his glasses, and smiled—she took that as a yes. Of course she would take it as a yes—she _knew_. What she _didn’t_ know, however, was that he also knew that she knew.

“Ooooh my God. There _is_ someone, isn’t there?!” she said again, poking his arm with both pointer fingers. “Spill everything. Who is it?”

The Doctor only gave her another look—his smile had become another one of his signature smug smirks. Amy frowned.

“Come on, Doctor, give me something here!” she said. “Something to distract me from the whole Rory thing.”

“What _Rory_ thing?”

“His whole… I don’t know, disappearing act-thing,” she said. “You’re not going to make me _guess_ , are you? That’s beneath even _you._ ”

“Why not?” he said, shrugging. “Let’s see how well you know me, Amelia Pond.”

“A test?”

“A bet,” he amended.

“Isn’t a bet unless we make it interesting,” she said, crossing her arms against her chest. “If I guess right, you owe me fifty quid.”

“Fifty quid’s a lot of money, Amelia,” he said, amusement flickering in the sly look of his eyes.

“Scared?” she teased. “ _Chicken?_ ”

“No,” he answered simply. “I’m not a gambler.”

“Of money, at least,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Come on, Doctor! Just tell me who it is!”

“No,” he said.

“You’re not _ashamed_ of her, are you?” she asked in jest, trying to rile him up. It worked.

“What—no!” he cried out in response, a blush quickly rising to his cheeks.

“Ha! So she’s a _girl_ this time!” she said, pushing her glasses up her nose, and pointing an accusatory finger at him.

“ _Amelia,_ ” he warned.

“Is she pretty?” she asked in singsong, poking his arm again.

“It’s Clara, all right!” he said, raising his arms in defeat. He scratched the back of his head and sighed. To anyone in the know, it was a pretty convincing performance—it was to Amy, at least. For effect, he added, “Clara Oswald! The photographer from Ten and Rose’s wedding.”

“ _I KNEW IT!_ ” Amy declared—and, of course, she actually did know.

“You did not,” he said with a petulant, singsong voice despite knowing that she knew.

“Did too!” she said. “Oh, I can’t _wait_ to tell Rory!”

The Doctor raised a brow at her for that; she could read the question in his eyes.

“We had a bet that you’d _totally_ go for that girl,” she explained. “He said you’d be too scared. I said you wouldn’t be able to resist. So now he owes me fifty quid.”

“What is it with you and fifty quid bets?”

“I’m a freelancer, remember? Take what I can get and pay rent with it,” she replied, unapologetically shrugging her shoulders. “So Clara, huh? Is she good?”

“Good…?” he asked.

“You know…” said Amy, waggling her brows and pushing her glasses down to help the insinuation. The Doctor blushed and faced away from her, hands raised. He started to walk away—quickly.

“I’m not talking about this with you,” he said.

“Why not?!” she asked, chasing after him.

“I used to tuck you into bed at night and read you bedtime stories—it’s… inappropriate!” he said, still waving his hands about and trying to walk away from her.

“Well, I’m an adult now! Have been for years! Want to see my ID?” she said, still keeping up with his stride.

The Doctor rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“How did it happen?” she asked. “You know… how did you two… start _happening?_ ”

“I don’t know,” he said, slowing down as her questioning took a different approach. They’d circled the gallery at this point and they were back to where they’d been standing. “It just… did.”

“You like her a lot, don’t you?” she asked, pushing her glasses up.

“Very much,” he answered, doing the same.

“That’s _adorable,_ ” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together and holding them against her chest. “Have you painted her yet?”

“I have, but—”

“In the _nude?_ ” she teased.

“ _Amelia._ ” She didn’t miss his darkening blush—and how he’d cleared his throat just then.

“Perfectly innocent question,” she defended.

“Nothing from you is _ever_ perfectly innocent,” he retorted.

Amy stuck her tongue out at him. Then, she stepped in front of him and made a T with her hands.

“So—segue but what are you doing for your birthday?” she asked.

“Hmm?” he said, looking taken aback by her question. “This, actually. The exhibit’s on the 23rd.”

“Am _I_ invited?” she asked.

“If you like,” he replied, shrugging.

“Is _Clara_ invited?” she pressed even more. The Doctor smiled, licked his thin lips, pushed his glasses up again, and ducked his head—she took that as a yes.

“You’re adorable when you’re in love, you know,” she said.

He cleared his throat and, to change the subject, he asked, “Think Rory will come to it?”

“Maybe. If I ask him,” she said, rolling her eyes, crossing her arms against her chest again, and pouting. “Like I said, he’s been a bit… AWOL for a few weeks. I don’t really know what’s wrong with him. D’you think it’s some sort of… I don’t know… _man_ -thing?”

“Again, wrong man to ask,” he replied. “I don’t typically _do_ regular man-things, as you say.”

“Just Clara,” she teased.

“Oh, shut up,” he said, as if irritated—but she knew better.

“By the way, what’s with the strings at the bottom of the paintings?”

“Hmm?”

“There are strings at the bottom of all the frames,” she said. And she was right—for at the very bottom of every single painting she’d hung up, there was a short string that dangled there. “They all look like weird square balloons now. What’re they for?”

“Part of the exhibit. It’s a bit of performance art,” he answered.

“So if I pull on it…” she started.

“I will be very, _very_ cross with you,” he said seriously. From the look on his face, she knew he meant it.

“Roger that. No on the pulling, then,” she said. “Is that it?”

“Think it is.”

“Great!”

“Thanks for helping me set up.”

“No problem!” she said. “Want to go get something to eat?”

“Nah, I’ve got a thing.”

“A _thing,_ ” she echoed. “Is it a Clara thing?”

“It is, actually,” he answered, looking almost smug.

“Ooooh, the Doctor on a _date_. I’d pay to see that.”

“We’ll get dinner some other time, okay?”

“Sure!” she said. “See you at the exhibit, Raggedy Man. We’ll do a birthday thing after. You’re not allowed to say no.”

“Whatever you say, Amelia Pond,” he said, giving his glasses a final, knowing push up his nose. “Whatever you say.”

 

* * *

  

Amy left the studio soon after that and when she did, he took his phone out to call Clara.

“So?” she asked expectantly as she’d answered on the first ring—hellos were past them. “How was she? Does she suspect anything?”

“No. But she’s nervous about Rory.”

“Nervous about him how?”

“Like she misses him,” he answered, pocketing one of his hands and looking out the clear glass window of the gallery. Outside, the street was becoming busier and busier. “Like she’s scared.”

“Well he _is_ planning to pop the big one so we’ll make up for that later. Lots to do, after all,” she said after some consideration. “I take it she’s left the gallery, then?”

“Yep,” he answered.

“All right. I’ll keep Rory ‘round for another hour or two so he’s a bit late with coming home,” she said. He could hear Rory starting to protest from the other end of the line but, in his mind’s eye, he knew she’d just raised a finger at him to hush him up. The mental picture made him smile. She started to ask, “Could you come by later and bring—”

But he already knew.

“Take away from that Thai place you like?”

“You’re the _best_ ,” she sighed and he knew she was grinning.

He pushed his glasses up his nose.

“See you when I see you,” he said.

“Love you,” she said then hung up before he could say it back.

Not that he ever had—not that she’d ever given him the chance to.

 

* * *

 

 

“SURPRISE!” cried the small, merry group that had gathered in what he’d ‘ _thought_ ’ would be his dark, empty art exhibit. Some had blown on party blowers while others had small party poppers and bits of confetti that they threw in his direction. Still, they’d all screamed in unison.

“ _HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DOCTOR!_ ”

There were balloons strewn across the room and a long dinner table set between the first wall and the glass wall at the front. If strangers could pass by, they’d be able to see the event happening inside and see that there was a celebration of some sort.

Despite knowing the plan, the Doctor gave his very best performance of acting surprised at this turn of events—which is to say that, for an excellent liar, he was a terrible actor. He’d exaggerated his surprise beyond belief and everyone simply supposed that someone had tipped him off earlier on, and laughed.

Well—almost everyone.

One Amelia Pond could only force mirth out of her for a few seconds before the farce dropped and she had to check her phone almost immediately after giving him a quick hug. Clara tapped her nose and cocked her head towards the guests when the Doctor met her gaze and he nodded in understanding.

_Keep them busy._

She then went to Amy’s side.

“That turned out great, right?!” Clara said, smiling at the redhead and starting to change her lens with another that was attached to the TriLens that hung on her hip, clipped to her belt. She stood a bit taller thanks to the wedged heels on her feet. She wore a dark purple suit with a white blouse that had a black pussybow in front of it—and, somehow, nobody questioned the Bluetooth device attached to her ear.

“Yeah, it did,” Amy responded without her characteristic enthusiasm.

“Hey,” said Clara, concerned. She put her hand on Amy’s arm. “You okay?”

“’Course, I am,” she replied monotonously, not once looking up at the other woman. She pressed send and sighed. “No, actually… I—I don’t know where Rory is again. He said he’d be here and I don’t know where he is. He _never_ does this.”

Her voice was full of emotion and, for a moment, Clara doubted this master plan—had she gone too far, she wondered.

“I’m sure he’ll be here, don’t worry.”

“But he’s missed dinner _thrice_ this week. I’ve asked around his work friends and he says he’s only done half the shifts he’s said he’s been doing…”

“Hey now, try to calm down,” she said, rubbing Amy’s arm gently in an attempt to comfort the other woman. “It’ll be all right. I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation.”

“No, you don’t understand. He isn’t _like_ this! _Ever!_ And I know him—I _know_ Rory.”

“I know you do.”

“Everything okay?” said a voice that came to their side. The Doctor.

“Do you know where Rory is?” Amy asked. There were tears starting to build up in her eyes, he could tell.

“No, why?” he asked.

“He said he’d be here. He _promised_ he’d be here,” she said. Her breath was becoming shallow as she felt her heart start to race. “The call time for the surprise was an hour ago.”

The Doctor and Clara exchanged a glance and, for a second, he saw his lover’s uncertainty—and shared it. Amy, oblivious to the silent conversation, saw her bowtied friend at the corner of her eye and darted off to him.

“I’m going to go ask Evan. Oi!”

“Still think this is a good idea?” asked the Doctor when Amy was well out of earshot.

“Ye of little faith,” she said but, for the first time since this planning began, she did not quite sound as sure. She pressed the button on the Bluetooth device in her ear. “Shona, how are we doing?”

“Eagle 1 is in position,” said the voice on the other line. Shona was hiding with a very nervous Rory in a nearby alleyway. She spoke into a walkie-talkie that Clara and the others were connected to.

“This isn’t Mission Impossible,” said Clara, rolling her eyes.

“Will you just let me have this?!” Shona replied.

“Yeah, sure. Knock yourself out,” Clara relented. “Journey? How’s security and crowd control?”

“According to plan,” said another voice on the connected call, also via a walkie-talkie. In a hidden room in the back, Journey Blue was sat watching hidden cameras, operating the switcher as everything was simultaneously recording in real time.

“Psi? Give us a drizzle. Downpour in five.”

“Got it, boss!” said another voice—her trusty, go-to tech expert—who was stationed at the rooftop of the gallery.

With a few pressed buttons, Clara saw a few droplets starting to fall against the clear glass window. Psi’s own tech crew was handling crowd control over the perimeter.

“Saibra—how’re we looking up top?”

“Ready to fall,” said a brooding figure just at the corner of the gallery, near a long rope that was attached to a fake black fabric that was somehow attached and stretched across the ceiling of the gallery.

To the unknowing, untrained eye—no one would be able to tell that there was something hidden inside.

“We’re almost ready, then,” Clara concluded. Her own heart was starting to race. She took a few sample shots within the room to double check her settings. When she saw that it was good, she looked up at the Doctor.

“Go cue the music. Wait for thunder.”

“Yes, boss,” he said.

The Doctor then made a quick way to Saibra, who also had the controls for the gallery’s sound system. He plugged in his iPhone and put on a little Bowie, then readied the planned track as his innocuous little playlist blasted.

While the crew set up, the guests found themselves none-the-wiser. Idle chatter surrounded them all as _Modern Love_ softly played in the background. All the while, Amy looked distressed as she talked with Evan Smith and he, in turn, had a frown on his face and held his friend by the arms in an effort to keep her calm.

“Rory?” Clara spoke into the Bluetooth device. In the street corner, Shona handed him the walkie-talkie. He covered one of his ears with his fingers and listened.

“How’re you doing?” she asked.

“He’s about ready to shit his pants,” Shona hollered from behind him.

“No, I’m not—I’m fine!” he lied. He was almost definitely about to soil himself.

“Shona, please try not to make him more nervous than he already is,” she said into the device. “Rory, we’re almost ready. Wait for the signal.”

And that was when Clara saw the redhead forcefully break free from Evan’s hold, near hysterics.

“Amy!” Clara called out and rushed towards her. “Hey, look at me—are you okay?”

“He’s not picking up his phone,” she answered; her hands, shaking while showing her phone that displayed Amy giving Rory 23 missed calls. “I don’t know where he is—I don’t know where he’s been, even Evan doesn’t know…”

“Hey, Pond… what’s going on?” said an Evan who caught up with his friend, unaffected by Clara’s presence (for once).

“I don’t know—I don’t know what’s going on!” Amy cried out. “I can’t find Rory again—where _is_ he?”

“Hey, hey, it’s all right!” Clara said, trying to comfort her by rubbing her arm again but Amy would not allow herself to be touched right then, and she frantically tried calling Rory once more.

“I’m sure he’ll be around soon, you’ll see,” Clara tried again. She looked out the glass window where the rain was now starting to get stronger. She pressed the button on the Bluetooth device in her ear, and said, “ _It’s getting dark out._ ”

“That’s odd,” said Evan, who looked out the window and frowned at the sight. He also noted how there were no passersby on what he knew to be a very busy street in Shoreditch, just around the time people should be out and about, going home or pubs and such. Strange.

“Wasn’t anything in the forecast about rain…” he mused.

“Freak shower?” Clara suggested.

“Shut up, both of you!” said Amy. The outburst made the crowd fall silent and they all turned to look at the trio. Evan noticed; Amy didn’t as she only cried out again. “ _Rory’s missing!_ And you two are bickering about the _weather?!_ ”

“He’s not missing—he’ll turn up, I promise!” said Clara.

“How can you _promise_ that?” Amy countered. “You don’t even—”

Then, a crack of lightning lit the sky—partnered by a loud roll of thunder. Even the building shook a bit (though, only the crew knew so far that this was because there were speakers hidden at the roof).

“Rory…” Amy whispered to no one but herself.

And that’s when it started.

The first strum of the Doctor’s guitar that loudly blasted in the speakers but the voice was very distinctly not him—it was Rory singing and the guests were baffled at the turn of events, low murmurs heard from every corner, but Clara raised a finger to her lips.

The song began.

_All my life… without a doubt, I give you… all my life…_

Amy, however, heard none of this. She felt as if all the blood had rushed to her ears and all she could hear was her own racing heartbeat—and all she could focus on was her now vibrating phone and she was fixated on the name that flashed on the screen.

“It’s him,” she said, facing away from the glass wall, putting her phone to her ear and blocking her other ear with her finger.

“Rory?” she spoke into the phone.

“Hi, Amy,” he said.

Clara slowly pulled Evan and herself away from Amy. He was too stunned to protest but soon caught on when Clara then ducked down and went to work, quick and light on her feet as she started to take photos.

“Where—where are you? The party’s started! The Doctor’s already here, you big dolt!” Amy cried into the phone, completely oblivious to anything and anyone else.

“I know… I know, Amy—”

“Just tell me where you are!”

“Amy, let me talk,” he said.

“Where _are_ you?”

Another roll of thunder—the rain was steadily pouring out now.

“You know I love you, right?” said Rory.

“Of course I know that, you stupid idiot,” Amy replied, aggressively wiping her tears away with her sleeves. “Now tell me where you are! You’re freaking me out!”

“I’m right here, Amy. But I just—I need to tell you something and I don’t know if I can say it in front of you,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” she said, green eyes seeing that the other guests were silent and looking at her, but her feet were too stunned to move away.

“Let me finish. Please.”

“Psi, be ready with the lights,” Clara whispered into her device while she was hidden and knelt down on the side, her camera at the ready. “Saibra, shower on my mark.”

“You know I love you,” said Rory into the phone.

_So I sing… I’d be happy just to… stay this way… spend each day with you…_

“Rory, you’re scaring me,” Amy replied. “I don’t know where you are—I don’t know where you’ve been. You’ve been acting like a complete idiot… I mean, even more so than usual.”

“I love you, Amy,” he said, not quite knowing what else to say but the truth. “It’s just… I don’t really want to be your boyfriend anymore.”

“What’re you saying? What do you _mean?_ ” she cried. “Rory? Talk to me!”

“I don’t want to be your boyfriend, Amy, _because_ I love you,” he said, stammering for he felt his racing heart in his throat and he could not swallow. He was short of breath and he felt his knees starting to buckle.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” she howled.

“I love you—that’s the only thing about me that I know will always be true.”

“Then why are you breaking up with me? Over the goddamn phone, no less?”

“I’m not breaking up with you, Amy,” he said. He looked to Shona, who was carrying an umbrella for him, and he nodded at her. Shona nodded back and ran back to the alley, leaving Rory to get rained upon in front of the art gallery’s window, his shaking hand that held his phone still against his ear—his other hand, shaking in his pocket.

“Stop talking stupid,” said Amy. “Yes you _are._ ”

“I’m not,” he said. He caught Clara’s eye, who was watching him intently, and he nodded at her. Though he trembled, he got down on one knee.

“Amy, turn around.”

“Psi, now!” Clara cried into her Bluetooth device just as Amy turned around.

A large spotlight singled in on Rory on one knee—a small, yellow ring box in his hands. Amy both gasped and screamed, though she covered her open mouth with her hand—she very nearly lost her balance as she stepped back.

The crowd behind her loudly exclaimed their “ _awwwwwww_ ”s.

With Amy’s attention solely on Rory now, Shona was free to sneak in from the back with Journey and they started handing out sunflowers and bags to petals to the guests. The pair of them shushed the other guests while they did so and whispered for them to pass the flowers on; the guests didn’t, then, need to be told what it was all for.

“Amy?” Rory said, holding the ring outstretched in one hand while his other was pressing the phone against his ear. “I don’t want to be your boyfriend. I want to be your _husband._ And I want to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll let me.”

_You came along and the sun did shine…_

“You’re a really, really stupid idiot, you know that?” Amy shouted, her voice croaking from tears, but oh, how she smiled. The other guests laughed—so did Rory.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know,” he said. The couple locked eyes and, after a beat, he finally asked.

“Amelia Jessica Pond? _Will you marry me?_ ”

Oh, how can a moment last forever?

For everyone in the room, each second went on for a lifetime.

For Amy and Rory, it took even longer.

Amy, hand against her heart, stood still. All the blood had drained from her face and her cheeks were wet with glistening tears. This moment played in her fantasies sometime—but never quite like this. She never imagined that it would actually happen… that something that only happened in her dreams could be unfolding before her. And suddenly, all her life’s pain and sorrow—all of the doubt in him, in herself, in the universe… it all faded into nothing.

The song kept playing in the speakers and finally, she could hear it through the sound of her beating heart—it was Rory’s voice, clear as day, singing words that she felt right in that moment.

_I want this all my life… I want this all my life… I wanted this all my life…_

The music faded to silence. No one even dared breathe. The only sound that she could hear was the rain and her own racing heart. And she knew what to say.

“Yes!” she cried out as loud as she could, her voice breaking as she did. Rory’s lips trembled as he exhaled and nearly fell over. Amy couldn’t stop crying. “Yes! Yes, oh my God, yes you idiot! Come in here!”

The room burst into applause as Rory quickly pocketed the ring and the phone, rose, and ran inside the gallery. The couple didn’t see anyone else but each other—Amy, still rooted to where she was stood; Rory, rushing to her side. When they met, the couple embraced tightly and wept in each other’s arms.

Clara, though crying herself, took shot upon shot upon shot.

When the couple separated, Rory was quick to move. He held Amy’s face with both hands and kissed her.

“Saibra, now! Psi, cut the rain!” Clara commanded.

Saibra pulled on the rope and the fabric fell open to shower them all in hundreds of sunflowers, petals dancing in the air. There was not a dry eye in sight as all the guests cheered and clapped for the happy couple, some of them throwing their flowers at them as well.

Amy broke the kiss to catch her breath and Rory rested his forehead against hers. Tears still freely flowed from both their eyes. With unsteady hands, he took the box from his pocket, opened it, took the ring from inside, and slipped it into Amy’s equally shaking fingers. When the ring that looked so much like a sunflower was on her finger, Amy breathed out a laugh at the memory of the perfect engagement ring she’d told Clara just weeks before—and they both started laughing. Rory held a hand against Amy’s face; his thumb, lightly caressing her tear-stained cheek.

“Everyone!” the Doctor cried out suddenly, to everyone’s—even Clara’s—surprise. They all turned to look at him and he bellowed, “Pull the strings on the paintings, now!”

The guests (and Clara) did as they were told and went to the nearest paintings and the strings made the trap door at the bottom of all the frames to fall out—and all the sand in the frames spilled to the floor.

The frames, then, revealed that they were all actually photographs—enlarged photographs of Amy and Rory at different points in their lives. And in each of them, they were together. The crowd let out another unanimous sound of awe and applauded.

Clara couldn’t help but grin at him and when she caught his eye, he winked.

Just like she said, everything went according to plan.

 

* * *

 

 

After a most thrilling dinner, some of the guests had left and the gallery was significantly roomier. The long dinner table had been cleared away and the few that were left were still buzzing with the night’s surprise festivities.

The Doctor was busy talking to Shona and Journey about the cleanup of the gallery. The newly engaged couple were still taking photos and mingling with the other guests—like sudden celebrities. Clara found herself along and standing by a corner, surveying the photos she’d taken, and smiling to herself.

That was when she heard name called out by a familiar voice.

“Clara!” said Evan, grinning as he approached her.

Well, it was Evan that she first saw… it took another second for her to register the companion he was with.

“Evan! And… Professor Song? Hello,” she said, a smile automatically coming into place as she offered the other woman a hand to shake. River reacted accordingly. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Please, call me River,” said the professor, giving Clara’s hand a firm shake.

“River, then,” Clara replied. “Hi. Good to meet you all the same.”

“Likewise,” she said. “That was quite the surprise you pulled.”

“I had help,” said Clara, shrugging.

“It was _great,_ ” Evan commented with a flourish, even thrusting his hips and raising both his hands to give her two thumbs up. Clara chuckled.

“Oh, that’s Jack!” said River as a friend came into view—very late to the party, with his own husband. She patted Evan by the arm. “Sweetie, I’ll be right back. You go ahead and ask her.”

Clara and Evan watched her go towards the two, somewhat disheveled guests. And it was the former who broke the tension.

“ _Sweetie?_ ” she echoed, her lips tight in a smile that looked as though she was holding back a laugh. Her crossed arms rested atop the camera that dangled from her neck.

“Oh, you know… it’s just a… _thing_ she calls me,” Evan explained as he gestured wildly still with his hands.

“I gathered,” she replied.

“So… um… Clara…”

“Evan,” she said, raising a brow at him as she waited for him to remember the rest of his words—patient as ever, as she recalled River saying something about asking her something.

“We’re… _good,_ yeah?” he asked shyly. “I mean, I know we didn’t exactly…”

Clara chortled.

“We’re _fine,_ Evan,” she said. “I promise.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh,” he sighed. “Oh, good.”

“It’s just nice to finally be introduced to the woman you left me for, y’know?” she teased.

Evan froze and his eyes went wide. His mouth hung open and he started stammering and furiously shaking his head, while his hands made the ‘ _no deal!_ ’ gesture quite vehemently, over and over again.

“I’m kidding,” she said, trapping both his hands in hers. “ _Relax._ I’m just messing with you.”

“Oh,” he gulped. “I guess I deserve that. _Are_ you sure, though?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said, giving his clasped hands a fond and gentle tap.

“Phew. Good,” he sighed and nodded. “Ey? That’s… good. That’s good.”

Clara nodded in return and released his hands. “Anyway, River said you wanted to ask me something?”

“Yes!” he said, his vigour back in his bones and he straightened his back. “Right-o! Yes, River and I, we…”

“We’ve been looking at your portfolio,” River said, coming back from behind him, looping her arm around his. “And we just _adored_ what you did with John and Rose’s wedding.”

“Oh, thanks very much,” Clara replied. “They’ve been my favourite wedding to shoot so far.”

Evan clapped once more. “Great! And so, we were just _wondering_ …”

“We’re getting married next month,” River said finally.

“And we wondered if you could do our wedding too?” Evan finished.

“Next month?” Clara asked, taken aback with a hand against her heart. Her brown eyes went wide at the request. “A _Christmas_ wedding, I take it?”

“Oh, yes! We’ve already sent out the invitations. It’ll be a grand old festive thing,” said Evan.

“I don’t think I have anything booked for next month. I was actually thinking of going on holiday with my boyfriend…” said Clara. The couple exchanged a glance and she saw the disappointment they shared in that millisecond—and that was enough to change her mind. “But come by the studio next week! I’m sure we can work something out.”

She reached for the sleeve attached to her camera’s lanyard. She took out a small white card from the compartment and handed it to Evan. “Here’s my card.”

“Ha-hey! It’ll work out splendidly then, ey?” he said.

“That sounds wonderful,” said River.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me…” said Clara as she started to bow away from the couple. She grimaced and started chiding herself in her head for accepting another request she found that she could not refuse.

“Clara!” came Evan’s voice again, breaking her out of her mental conversation with herself.

“Yes?” she said, turning around to face him.

“I never… I don’t think I ever got to say sorry,” he said, sincere and sobered from his usual enthusiasm for once. “I _am_ sorry, you know. For how we left things. I never apologised properly and I… I realise now that I was wrong for it. For how I... put my feelings before yours all the time. Made it seem like… just because I was afraid meant that your fears didn’t matter as much. And I _hurt_ you. I probably hurt you a lot when we were… and I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

“Ancient history,” Clara replied, grinning widely. She teased, “Isn’t that your thing now with her?”

The pair of them chuckled.

“Anyway, apology accepted, John Smith the Eleventh,” she said. “You’re forgiven.”

They reached for each other at the same time and hugged.

“I’ll be seeing you,” said Clara when she broke away from his embrace. “Make an appointment with my secretary. Come by the studio. We’ll work something out for your wedding.”

“I’ll do that,” said Evan. “Thank you, Clara.”

Just as he started to turn away from her and back to his fiancée, Clara asked, “Are you happy? With her?”

Evan turned back to her, smiled and looked down before he met her eyes and nodded.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Yes, I am.”

“Good,” she said, crossing her arms against her chest. “I’m happy for you.”

 

* * *

  

Clara watched Evan leave and rejoin his future bride.

She was smiling at the pair, ruminating on the night’s truly unexpected turn of events. She then felt another presence walk up to her and she saw her own lover standing by her side.

“Nice touch on the paintings, mister,” she said, gently elbowing him.

“Couldn’t let you have all the credit,” he replied.

“You two are absolutely, pure evil,” cried Amy Pond from behind them. The pair turned around and they were both quickly enveloped into a hug.

“Thank you _so_ much,” Amy whispered to both of them. When she let them go, she said, “Rory told me everything.”

“You were right,” said Rory, who was beside Amy and encircled her waist with his arm and pulled her to him. “That was…”

“Magical?” Clara offered.

“Yeah,” he agreed and added, “You’ve retained your hundred percent guarantee, I see.”

“I _know_ ,” said Clara with a wink. “Congratulations, you two.”

“So this party… this was all for Rory asking me to marry him, right?” Amy asked, returning her fiancé’s side-embrace.

“Mostly,” Clara replied. “Only the Doctor knew. And me. And my crew, of course.”

“Does that mean I get to keep all the presents?” Amy asked. And the four of them laughed.

Suddenly, Clara felt her coat pocket start to vibrate. She took out her phone and saw the name flashing on the screen.

“Hang on, sorry,” she said. “It’s my dad. I’ve got to take this. I’ll be right back!”

Clara ran out of the gallery and rushed outside to take the call, leaving the trio to themselves.

“We’re still celebrating your birthday after this; don’t think I’ve forgotten!” Amy told the Doctor as Clara leaned against the glass wall outside. “We made plans!”

“We’re already celebrating it! And this _was_ the plan,” he argued. “There’s people here and everything.”

“Come on, we’ve got to do a _proper_ birthday thing for you. Not just a birthday slash surprise ‘ _Rory’s going to be an idiot and give me a heart attack before proposing to me_ ’ bash!” she reasoned. “Don’t we, Rory?”

“Yeah, and for Clara too,” he said.

“Clara?” the Doctor asked. “What’d you mean?”

“Well… don’t you know?” said Rory, looking at Amy and the Doctor who both looked to him with befuddled expressions.

“It’s Clara’s birthday today too.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hi, dad,” Clara answered as she leaned against the glass wall.

And David Oswald began to sing.

“ _Happy birthday, Clara… happy birthday, Clara… happy birthday, dear Clara… happy birthday to you!_ ”

She laughed at the sound of her father singing from the other end of the line. She bit her lip and closed her eyes. It looked like Amy Pond won’t be the only person who’d get a song tonight.

“Thanks, dad,” she said when he finished.

“Are you coming over this weekend?” he asked excitedly and filled with so much hope. “We should do something for your birthday!”

“Not this weekend, I think,” she replied. “I just did a wedding proposal. Lots of post to do, you know how it is.”

“Keeping busy then, Clara-bear?” he asked, trying to hide the disappointment from his voice but it was no use masking anything from his daughter.

“Always,” she said. “How’s home?”

“The same as its always been. Gran misses you,” he replied. “ _I_ miss you. It’s like I don’t hear from you anymore.”

“I’m sorry, dad. It’s just been… busy, y’know?” she replied and even she knew that it was a tired cliché—something her father didn’t deserve. And yet, she found herself repeating the same excuses over and over again. Thankfully, this time—she didn’t exactly have to lie. Clara continued. “Someone’s _literally_ just asked me to do a Christmas wedding, actually.”

“Oh,” said her father. “So you won’t be home for Christmas?”

“I don’t know yet,” Clara replied, her voice and heart heavy with guilt. “I _might_ make it. Save a place for me?”

The line went silent on both ends. All she could hear were the rushing cars and cabs that passed by the now clear street. And she could tell that this was not where her father wanted the conversation to go. She looked down and her face fell as she shuffled her feet around like she did when she was a child and she was being told off for misbehaving.

“Are you ever going to let me back in?” Dave asked quietly. Dejectedly.

Clara sighed.

“ _Dad…_ ”

“Look, I know I haven’t been the best father, but I’m trying, and—”

“Dad, it’s okay,” she forced herself to say. She swallowed and exhaled as she felt a single tear fall from her eye. She wiped it away just as quick. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

Another beat of silence fell between them.

“All right, then,” said her father, saddened in defeat. “Have fun on your birthday, Clara-bear.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said Clara, sniffling and wiping her nose with her sleeve. “I do miss you. And Gran. I’ll come by to visit soon, okay?”

“You promise?” he asked, just hopeful enough—and enough to break her heart upon hearing it.

“Yep,” she lied.

“I love you, Clara,” he said. She smiled, closed her eyes, and nodded to herself.

“Love you too, Dad.”

She brought the phone back down and watched the seconds tick by on the call just beneath her father’s name. He didn’t end the call—so she could have to. And she did. When her phone’s light went out, she looked at it for a long moment before she sighed and put it back in her pocket.

That was when she heard another voice just beside her—a presence she somehow hadn’t noticed while she was on the phone.

“So…” said the Doctor, holding a small bouquet of sad-looking sunflowers he’d picked up from the floor. “It’s your birthday.”

“How did you…” she started, surprise painted on her features but her lips grew to a smile anyway. “Were you eavesdropping on my call?”

“No,” he replied. “Rory told us.”

“ _Us?_ ”

“Amy,” he answered. “She’ll have strong words with you about this later.”

Clara laughed, took the flowers he’d offered, and turned the other way. He smiled at her but when his eyes met hers, she saw that he was somehow saddened by all of this.

“You didn’t tell me we have the same birthday.”

“It never came up,” Clara said apologetically.

“How did you even know when mine was?”

“I’m a _very_ good girlfriend?” she tried. The Doctor gave her a look. “Also, I nicked your Driver’s License once to see what your actual name is ‘cause I was curious and you were asleep for once.”

“I wish you’d have told me,” he said. “I would have done something.”

“I know you would have,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t. I don’t like being fussed over.”

“But you’ll do all this for Amy?” he pointed out.

“ _This_ is in Amy’s taste,” she replied. She pointed a warning finger at him. “ _Never_ do this for me.”

“I don’t think I could ever pull off something like this,” he responded.

“Well, I could name a few things you could pull off tonight…” she said suggestively as she took a step closer to him to ease their distance. Her hands snaked up his chest and her around wrapped around his neck. “After all… now that you know it’s my birthday…”

The Doctor smiled down at her and raised his silver brows.

“Anything you want,” he told her.

“Even _really_ good birthday sex?” she tried. He chuckled and dipped his head down low, his forehead resting against hers.

“Anything you want,” he whispered.

“Even the thing with the ropes and—”

He cut her off with a kiss that she melted into, one of her feet popping up behind her as his arms wrapped around her waist and held her to him.

“ _Anything you want,_ ” he said again, brushing the tip of her nose with his. She jumped up into his arms properly and kissed him again—not quite remembering when she was this happy.

 

* * *

  

Unbeknownst to the couple outside, another couple of eyes found the scene.

“Sweetie,” said River Song, pulling a nearby Evan towards her.

“Look outside,” she pointed.

“Oh?” he started, looking at her and then looking towards where she was pointing, and… “ _Oh._ ”

Outside stood both the Doctor and Clara, wrapped up in each other’s arms in a tender, passionate kiss that both of them were smiling into. In Clara’s hands was a small, recycled bouquet of sunflowers that the Doctor probably picked up from the floor. At the other side of the room, Amy Pond pointed towards the couple as well and reminded Rory of his new debt to her.

But for those who didn’t know – like the future Dr and Mrs Evan Smith – the scene was met with open-mouthed surprise. Most of them, of course, were filled with delight at the scene and yet for _this_ soon-to-be married couple…

Both their hearts fell at the same time.

“Did you know?” River asked.

“No!” Evan replied. “Did you?”

“No!” River echoed.

“Oh dear,” he said. “You haven’t sent it out yet, have you?”

“I’m afraid I have, sweetie.”

“… _Oh dear._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such a long chapter! I honestly did not anticipate this but, fun fact, this "fake out proposal" was based on a real life thing that happened to me. The next on my schedule of fics to be updated is "imagine them happy" so watch this space. Also, the bit about the engagement rings is 100% true. Don't get diamonds! Check out "Jewels: A Secret History" by Victoria Finlay. It's a really good read, y'all.
> 
> If you would like to help me financially while I'm depressed, unemployed, and struggling to find freelance work, you could subscribe to my **[Patreon page](http://patreon.com/owedbetter)** and donate even just $2/month. Or, for one time donations, you could buy me coffee or something with a lil donation to my **[Paypal](http://paypal.me/jodayuta)** if you're able to do so and want to. No pressure but y'know--that "freelancer" line was inspired. 
> 
> Hope you lot enjoy this chapter! Please let me know what you think of it in the comments!
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Jo xxx


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Kronos, Austin, and Ana for their help with this chapter! It's kind of a big one.

_“…Then when I feel my joys certain_  
_And my hour of greatest delight arrived_  
_I find my pain beginning all over once again._ ”

Excerpt from “ _I Live, I Die, I Burn, I Drown_ ” by Delmira Agustini

 

* * *

 

 

Did they know?

Did the people of Pompeii know when Vesuvius would erupt? Were there warning signs from all around them that they simply chose to ignore? Were the skies clouded in patches of dark, ominous smoke coming from the volcano but everyone thought it would just blow over? Did they opt to bury their heads in the sand instead and pretend the problem would go away on its own? Did they say to themselves, with conviction: _never—no, it couldn’t be. That kind of thing happens to someone else, not us._

Or, tragically—maybe they noticed and they were just about to run.

 _Just one more day,_ they might’ve thought. Just one more day in paradise, in complacency, they might’ve thought. _Just one more day and tomorrow, we’ll face it. We could always run tomorrow._

But sometimes, you don’t get time.

Tomorrow, after all, is promised to no one.

And this?

This was Act 2 – and there was a storm coming.

 

* * *

  

It was cold.

That was her first thought as she blinked away her earlier stupor; her bare limbs still buzzed in the echo of the sweet, sweet body electric, and felt both light and heavy at the same time. Her skin brushed the smooth, cool fabric of his sheets—and nothing else. Her second thought was that he was not next to her. Her third thought was that he was nearby, if the sound was anything to go by.

He was sat at the edge of his mattress and the welcome sight of the muscles of his bare back was the first thing she properly saw. His wild, curling, untamable silver locks. Dim yellow light from the bedside lamp lit up the room but only barely, in contrast to the pale blue of his walls in the pale, late night moonlight.

Unbeknownst to both of them, grey storm clouds were only just starting to roll in. They did not see nor did they care—they only saw stars, yet to be covered by sleet. And maybe they should have.

Clara moved—careful but gracelessly slow—to sit up from the mattress, pulling the duvet with her to cover her bare chest. The bones along her spine popped and cracked from the movement, and she sighed and groaned as she rubbed her tired eyes. A soreness made itself known along her hips, her legs. The Doctor looked over his shoulder; even in the dim light, she could _feel_ him smirk just before he turned back around.

“What’re you doing?” she murmured.

He didn’t answer. Instead, she heard the quiet strums of his electric guitar—a familiar tune that took a few more shakes before she could place what it was. And by then, he’d already started to sing.

“ _I could stay awake just to hear you breathing,”_ he sang as he strummed, soft as a whisper. Clara started to smile.

“Ever thought that that opening lyric was just a teeny tiny bit creepy?” she teased, raising a brow.

“ _Watch you smile while you are sleeping, while you’re far away and dreaming…_ ” he continued, refusing to let her ruin the moment.

As he sang, she grinned and moved so she could walk with her knees towards him. His back faced her as he played and sang. But before he could continue, she rested her chin on his bare shoulder.

“ _I could spend my life in this sweet surrender,”_ she continued for him, her cool hands ghosting along the skin of his arms. He could only barely feel the soft blades of her fingertips, the heat of her body just very nearly against his back; it was enough for him to sigh and throw his head back.

She smiled as she sang the line, teasingly mimicking the original raised pitch at the end of the last word. Clara giggled, placing a swift kiss on his neck as she squeezed his arms in her journey of wrapping him in her embrace. Her dulcet voice quieted as she continued and sang just by his ear while he played accordingly, “ _I could stay lost in this moment… forever…_ ”

They looked at each other then – him, turning to meet her upward gaze – the tips of their noses barely brushing—but a breath away. Crooked hearts, crooked smiles. He continued, his crescendo matching his guitar’s melody.

“ _Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure!_ ”

A split second of silence—locked eyes between them, twin grins on their faces. He played on.

“ _I DON’T WANT TO CLOSE MY EYES!_ ” They sang together—ridiculously and obnoxiously loud, much to the disdain of the Doctor’s sleeping neighbours; neither of the lovers cared.

“ _I don’t want to fall asleep!_ ” Clara continued. “ _‘Cause I’d_ miss _you, babe…_ ”

“ _And I don’t wanna miss a thing!_ ” They sang—him, taking the main melody while she harmonised the higher pitch.

“ _’Cause even when I dream of you…_ ” she purred.

“ _The sweetest dreams will never do… I’d still miss you, babe, and I don’t wanna miss a thing!_ ” he sang back at her.

“ _I don’t want to miss one smile…_ ” she started.

“ _I don’t want to miss one kiss…_ ” he sustained.

“ _I just want to be with you, right here with you, just like this…”_

“ _I just want to hold you close!_ ”

“ _Feel your heart so close to mine!_ ”

“ _And just stay here in this moment for all the rest of time…_ ”

A look, a beat; mirrored smirks betwixt cosmic souls that _know_. A moment of sweet, serendipitous silence—a split second, a heartbeat that lasted forever.

“ _Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeaaaaaaah…!_ ”

Neither of them could hit the highest note with any semblance of actual, professional effort yet they both made the attempt anyway – gleefully and with reckless abandon. Their cheeks were starting to hurt from the smiling and yet neither of them could stop. Nor did they want to.

Outside, thunder rumbled.

A neighbour opened their window, threw a dense object that landed against the wall just outside the Doctor’s bedroom with a loud _THUNK!_ , and yelled for the lovers to keep it the fuck down – it was two in the _fucking_ morning, and people were trying to sleep.

The pair only smiled, made suddenly bashful and blushing yet unapologetic, chuckling. Clara bit her kiss-swollen bottom lip; when he turned to look at her, there was a spark in those eyes and he knew that look. He smirked. The Doctor gave a few, last, lazy strums of his guitar—quieter than before, but still smug.

“ _I don’t want to close my eyes…_ ” he sang quietly. “ _I don’t want to fall asleep ‘cause I’d miss you, babe, and I don’t want to miss a thing._ ”

“ _’Cause even when I dream of you…_ ” she went on, though he’d already made his move to turn off his amplifier. “ _The sweetest dream would never do, I’d still miss you, babe, and I don’t wanna miss a thing…_ ”

The song ebbed to silence and all they could do was sit and stare into each other’s eyes. It took considerable effort for him to look away from her when he broke away for never was there ever a grin quite like hers, with starlight in her eyes.

The dull yellow light behind her made the flecks of red in her wild, brown hair apparent. When she smiled, the shadows made her dimples ever more prominent. From where he was, she looked to be glowing with a saint-like halo—divine and unholy, swathed in his sheets—and every time, he thought and believed himself blessed. With every breath, he sent a prayer in thanks and reverence. To whom, even he didn’t know—most days, it was simply to her.

The Doctor leaned in to kiss her and she met him halfway; they kissed—sweetly, swiftly.

“God, we’re so annoying,” she joked, moving to fold her legs beneath the sheets. She hugged them to her chest and rested her chin atop her knees.

With a smirk and a shrug, he said, “You like it, though.”

He rose to put the speaker and guitar back to its assigned corner and from where she was sat; she let her gaze wander and wonder—appreciative and delighted. The muscles of his back, the curve of his spine, the rise and fall of his shapely arms and she knew and remembered just how strong he really was, his own wild, soft silver curls the sheer ridiculousness of his question mark boxers that were the only clothes he had on (which made him markedly overdressed to her); Clara bit her lip, swallowed, and tried to shift where she was sat.

He could feel her watching. She knew he knew.

“Please,” she said finally, rolling her eyes. “Have you got any idea how many people have that bloody song as their song on their wedding?” He laughed. “I only like it this one time ‘cause you looked so cute.”

The Doctor sat back down his mattress—almost next to her, but not quite. His arms went around her bare waist, with her back against his chest and his nose against her neck. She sighed as she leaned into him, grinning.

“Please tell me you’re not practicing for Evan and River’s thing though because if that’s their song for the first dance, I’m killing myself,” she joked as she arched her neck further back when she felt him trailing little kisses on her skin.

“I’d rather you kill Evan,” he murmured quietly against her. “But no, it’s not for them. Just felt like it.”

“Mmm, were you watching me smile while I was sleeping?” she asked, cheeky. Clara reached behind her; her palm found his cheek, and her hand kept moving up and up and up. Her fingers reached his hair and she pulled lightly to try and get to move those kisses of his to her neck.

“Depends if it was me you were seeing,” he replied.

“Oh my God, shut up,” she said with a laugh.

“Yes, boss,” he said, pulling her down with him, slow and with intent.

Their heads met the soft pillows and she closed her eyes and hummed. She bit her lower lip even harder as he pressed kiss after kiss after kiss on her skin. Naturally, his hand drifted lower but where he usually found her slick and smooth, his fingers met those lips with dry friction. Clara felt him chuckle behind her.

“What, do I not do it for you anymore?” he teased, teasing her back into it and she giggled.

“Sometimes it take a little while to catch up,” she replied with a smile. She turned her head just so to give him a look. “You forget—I _did_ just wake up from the last time we did it.”

“I did not forget,” he whispered. “I just miss you.”

His voice dropped an octave when he said that, and he spoke it right by the shell of her ear. His breath felt warm. To top it all off, she felt his tongue as it ran up from the base of her neck to her ear. Clara whimpered and swallowed; with his hand still between her legs, he felt her thighs squeeze together as she arched her back.

“Christ, I thought you were supposed to be ace,” she said, breathless as her voice rose in pitch.

“I am,” he said, his free hand moving to her neck—his thumb and middle finger pressing with significant pressure on either side of her neck, tightly massaging her in that way he knew she liked. The Doctor felt her swallow beneath his hand and she groaned. He continued to whisper by her ear. “But I grew up in the time of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, darling. I know a few things.”

With that, he moved her swiftly so that he was on top of her back, with her flat on her stomach. Clara had her cheek against his pillow; he could only barely see her dimpled grin in the dim light.

“Will you ever show me these things…?” she asked, her voice soft, sultry, and struggling.

“We’d need a few more people for that,” he answered, his hands moving to her hips; his grip, strong. Clara laughed but the sound was strained as she struggled to remember how to breathe.

“You know you don’t have to do this for me,” she spoke between heaving breaths. Her hands were flat on either side of her as she clutched and smoothed whatever fabric she could get her hands on. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know,” he whispered against her ear, then he pressed a kiss on her cheek. “But I like it with you.”

A kiss behind her neck. “I like being with you.”

His hands on her breasts. “I like holding you.”

“I like how it makes you look,” he said as he continued to trail kisses down her back with his hands following in the descending exploration of her body, massaging her flesh as he went. He crawled backwards above her, the space between them near nonexistent.

“Smile.” _Kiss just by the top of her spine._ “Laugh.” _Kiss just by the middle of her back._ “The little noises you make.” _Kiss on the small of her back._ “Your eyes get all huge, it’s like they inflate.”

“Charming,” she deadpanned but she could not hide how she squirmed underneath him. “I’m wooed.”

“Up,” he said, his lips pressing sloppy, wet kisses to her bare arse. He lifted himself and then her by the hips, and she was on her knees. The next thing she could feel was his tongue between her legs with her arse high up, and—

“Oh, sweet fuck, do that again,” she keened, high and unashamedly loud. Clara tried to muffle the sound with the pillow but all of her limbs were shaking. She felt tight inside—coiled and wound up, just near breaking. Her hands gripped pillows— _hard_. She felt herself buck against him, seeking more of his tongue on her.

“That’s my girl,” he said, chuckling, and he was only so happy to give her what she wanted.

She cried out and propped herself up on her elbows.

And Christ, his hands pressed and massaged every inch of her skin that he could grasp—and, God, his tongue licked and flicked in relentless pursuit of her rising pleasure. Clara felt it, wanted it, craved it; the scent of sex suddenly strong. He poured himself into the task at hand and he was rewarded with her shaking legs, her wanton cries as she begged him to keep going and shouted her approval, her lustful moans in between sentences—her, her, _her!_

When he knew her to be slick enough, he climbed back up to her and pressed wet kisses along her neck. He grinned when he heard that she then only knew three words—a chant made up of ohs, and mys, and _God_. He ground against her arse and she felt him, close and hard, and while she wanted to speak actual words, her verbose mental dictionary was reduced to a mere, refined collection of prolonged vowels and his name.

A few quick movements was all it took to rid himself, again, of the only piece of clothing he had on for modesty’s sake—and yet, she thought that he could not be quick enough. Clara told him as much—she was losing her goddamn mind. Though time moved differently for her right then—slow and fast at the same time. Time was suddenly diluted and her senses were enhanced, as if she were in some kind of otherworldly trance, and there wasn’t enough air in the world for her to breathe.

He aligned himself with her and from behind, they remade their bodies electric. His hands gripping hard on her hips as he pushed into her in that hard, rough, fast way that he knew she liked. He knew ever more now as she reached behind her—reached for him and he felt her nails harsh against the skin of his arms, and she tried to pull on him for more.

She pulled for his arm as he thrust into her and with her motions, it took a moment for him to glean where she was getting at. With one hand still holding her hip with a bruising grip, he leaned forward as his other hand traveled up her body and his hand found itself by her neck again—his learnt thumb and middle finger pressing sweetly and hard where they were meant to.

Clara, lightheaded, swallowed and breathlessly laughed as he did this, moving her hips backward to meet him thrust after thrust. He loosened his grip on her neck every few seconds, careful to never hit her wind pipe despite everything, and she choked and laughed at the pleasure of it.

At some point, she told him to pull at her hair—press her head down to the pillow, then pull at her hair, hard. Choke her again. A slew of demands she wouldn’t be able to recall come morning light.

If asked about _that_ particular fuck, Clara would not be able to tell you where one orgasm ended and the next one began. All she could remember was the feeling of her eyes rolling to the back of her head and how all she could see was darkness; she could remember how her legs gave out from under her when he finally came inside her, and she landed back on the bed without any modicum of grace; she could remember her heaving breaths and her coughing fit and how she sounded like she was crying but laughing at the same time, and his, which soon became breathless, mindless laughs; she could remember how he didn’t let her go, and how she never wanted him to.

“Happy early Christmas,” he whispered after she heard him swallow as he laboriously caught his breath just by her ear.

“Happy early Christmas,” she returned, a shaky smile on her lips.

And as the lovers drifted into their second round of exhausted slumber, the storm clouds continued to roll over—uncaring for their moment of bliss, with lightning looming in the distance and would soon have to strike somewhere.

 

* * *

 

 

In another part of England, a redheaded Scottish woman was yelling in a hotel room. They, unlike the lovers, could see the maelstrom rolling into its approach and knew it for the destructive force that it was.

“For fuck’s sake, River, what were you thinking?” Amy yelled.

The four of them were already at the wedding venue, after the soon-to-be married couple had called the other two for help and brought them in to their dilemma. Amy’s heart raced in her chest and Rory could only sit and stare at Evan and River, open-mouthed in disbelief.

“It wasn’t just _my_ idea—Evan brought it up!” River argued.

“Oi! I—We, ey! _We_ ,” Evan started, his hands wildly flailing and pointing between himself and his fiancée, “just wanted to do something nice for him! How was I—I mean we… were _we_ supposed to know—”

“You _knew_ what they were like back then, you stupidhead!” Amy replied. “You _fucking_ knew!” She rose from her seat and it was all Rory could do to hold on to her arm so she could only stand just by her chair instead of slapping Evan into the next century or throwing something presumably priceless at him. “You _both_ knew, and you still thought this would be a good fucking idea?”

“Amy, okay—Amy, enough…” Rory reasoned, having to stand up with Amy just to keep her at bay. He looked to his own fiancée and asked, “Does Clara know?”

He got his answer in a second when he saw her green eyes widen and looked as if she’d just got the wind punched out of her.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “ _Fuck._ ”

“I…” Evan started, mirroring the look of abject horror.

“Shit,” River agreed, needing to sit down on the four poster bed.

“He doesn’t talk about it much,” Evan tried. “But he must have told her, right? If he cares—”

“Don’t you dare,” Amy interjected. “Have you _met_ him?”

“What’re we going to do?” Rory asked.

“This is not the problem I wanted to deal with on my wedding…” River muttered, mostly to herself as she massaged her temple with two fingers.

“Yeah, ‘cause your first two went off without a hitch,” Amy spat.

“Amy,” said Rory—a warning, a chastise. Being angry won’t help anyone right now, were his words unspoken and with a swallow, Amy understood.

“Sorry,” she said. “But just—God! How could anyone in their right minds think this was a good idea?”

“We’re _sorry_ , all right? We didn’t know!” said Evan. As he spoke, he rubbed his hands together and gestured wildly, but his eyes betrayed his fear—his fear born of the fact that he was aware of just how monumentally he’d fucked up. “But we think we can minimise some of the damage. We’ve arranged for them to, uh— _accidentally_ meet-up on the train on the way to the venue. Private car for just them! That’s a good few hours to talk things over before the wedding, right?” he tried.

“Ey?” Evan didn’t sound convinced—and none of the others were as well. “Sounds like a plan?”

“You think them alone for hours would do _anyone_ any good?” asked Rory.

“Well it’d be better if Clara weren’t there when it happens, wouldn’t it? Even I know that!” Evan reasoned.

“None of this is good,” said Rory as he faced Amy and he held her face in his hands. Her eyes were downcast and her lips were parted. Worry painted her every feature and God, he’d do anything to fix it if he knew how.

“Poor Doctor,” she whispered.

“Poor Clara, if she doesn’t know,” Rory added.

“Don’t you think she knows?” Evan asked, though he sounded as if he didn’t quite believe it either. Ever the hoper of far-flung hopes and dreamer of improbable dreams. “I mean—it _is_ kind of important, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know,” Amy answered. “I don’t even _what_ to think.”

“I don’t think he would; you know what he’s like,” said River. “He doesn’t like to talk about the things he regrets.”

A beat of silence filled the room—soon followed by the faraway echo of thunder’s rumble, slow in its approach and it could not be slowed down, no matter how much they all wished they could prevent it from happening. In the background was an open envelope on a table, a single smiley face on the ‘Yes’ box—an RSVP.

With his fiancée in his embrace, Rory spoke the truth that they were all feeling.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Have you prepped for your best man speech yet?” Clara asked upon her return from the loo.

She walked with an uneven gait—her bare hips and her neck sufficiently and happily bruised, he noted.

Morning had crept in just a few hours later. Cloud-diffused sunlight bled into the room and it was cold inside, but bright enough. She snuggled back into her boyfriend’s waiting embrace.

He scoffed, hitching a leg up her hip as he spooned her from behind. “I could do a toast to that bowtied idiot in my sleep.”

Clara laughed. “I still can’t believe this is your eleventh best man gig.”

“You know, I still don’t get why they keep picking you,” she added. “No offence.”

“None taken,” he answered. He closed his eyes and held her closer. “What’s your excuse? You didn’t have to take this job, you know. I thought you wanted to go traveling.”

“I know. And I will,” she reasoned. “Doing this wedding will let me go backpacking comfortably for over a year without taking anything else on.”

“Clara Oswald, globetrotting explorer,” he said, amused by the idea. “What about Shona and the others?”

“They’re all partners at this point,” she answered. “They’ll manage without me for a little bit. Plus, they know I’ve been planning this since I graduated university. I’m owed some _me_ time, you know? I’ve accumulated enough leaves in the last, what? Twelve years?”

“Thinking of retiring already?” he teased.

“Ha! _Please,_ ” she said. “I’m too _young_ to retire.” Clara reached for his hand that was against her belly and she threaded their fingers together. She brought his hand up to her cheek and sighed. “ _And_ I love my job too much. I just want to go exploring for a while—a _long_ while. Then come back. Go exploring again after another long while. Repeat until life termination, ideally.”

“Sounds like a good life,” he commented.

“Will you stick around that long?” she asked quietly.

A loaded question, yes, and she wondered if he could feel how her heart skipped a beat when she asked. She’d tried to ask it as a joke but the truth was that she’d been wondering for a long time now.

And truth be told, fear shadowed her every moment when she was with him. It lingered at the back of her mind—whispering warnings in her ear, to remember how it had destroyed her father; to remember what love this true and strong could do when she lost it. Fear followed her and it nagged at the back of her mind relentlessly.

But by God, if constantly calling on courage was what it took to be with him… _then let me be brave_ , she would pray. _Let me be brave._ She’d prayed it once when she confessed to him that first time—and, if she were honest (which she always is with him), she hasn’t been able to stop praying since.

And she prayed now, as she awaited his answer with bated breath—though she would not quite tell him that.

“As long as you want me,” he answered in the same way, an eternity of a breath later.

“And what if that’s forever?” she asked.

“Then forever it is,” he replied, not missing a beat.

Clara smiled with tear-bright eyes and turned to look at him. His eyes looked so brilliantly blue in this light—the colour that a clear, cloudless sky could only aspire to be. They were so close together, so warm and so happy, that they did not see the storm clouds that crept outside. Small droplets landed against the glass of his window.

“You realise we sound so annoyingly married right now,” she commented.

“The thought’s occurred,” he agreed.

The Doctor relaxed and arranged himself just so on the bed so that he could lay on his back—his arm outstretched so Clara could cuddle closer to him. And she did. His arm rested against her lower back and when she looked at him like that—with her face so close to him that he could probably count each of her lashes if he looked and concentrated hard enough—he had the smallest little pouting smile on his thin lips.

“Do you want to get married someday?” he asked offhandedly.

“Is that you asking?” she asked back, raising a brow and smirking.

“What—” he started, eyes suddenly bulging in worry—as if he didn’t quite intend to say his last question out loud. “I didn’t— N-no!”

“Defensive, much?” Clara teased. “Should I be offended?”

“No, no, that’s not what I—” he started, shaking his head now and just about ready to leap up from the bed, when Clara put a hand against his chest to calm him.

“ _Relax,_ ” she said. “I’m kidding.”

He blinked at her a few times then and she tilted her head, watching him process her humour. When he’d visibly calmed down, she reached up just ever so slightly to rub the tip of her nose with his. The Doctor licked his lips, swallowed, pouted, and finally nodded.

“Trust me,” he started. “When I ask, you’ll know.”

“When?” she teased again and just before he restarted his almost panic, she moved her hand up from his chest to his cheek. Clara kissed him, unable to resist.

“God, you’re so cute and it’s so easy to wind you up, I’m so sorry,” she said, grinning and very much not sorry at all. She kissed his forehead and the tip of his nose. “I do expect a nice ring when you ask, though.”

“No diamonds?” he asked, though his heart was still racing. Fear difficult to swallow but it helped that he was not alone in his need for courage—she was just better at hiding it.

“Good boy, you’ve been taking notes,” she said. “So—travel, get married, travel some more, work, more travel… not necessarily in that order.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agreed. “What about kids?”

“Somewhere along the line, I’m sure we could pencil that in,” she said, faux seriously—coming from the exaggerated pout of her full lips. “Mmm, with your eyes and curly hair, yeah?”

“Or your eyes and your nose…” he said.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if we had a kid that’s got heterochromia and they had one of each of our eyes?” she joked.

“How about one with my nose and your height—” he teased. She laughed and he calmed down so much more, his eyes bright and his smile, easy.

“Our kids are going to hate us,” she said.

“I just want to name the first one Justice,” he said.

“ _Justice?_ ” Clara asked, baffled.

“So their name will be Justice Smith, right—”

“But you said your proper name’s not John Smith,” she started, increasingly perplexed and she wore the expression transparently on her face.

“Yes, it is. Technically,” he answered. “According to the only recognised official records, anyway. The card with the name they found on me—no one could pronounce it so it doesn’t really matter.”

“Okay…” she tried. “I’ll give you that, I guess. I don’t like my surname anyway, so Smith works just fine…”

“And the other John Smiths from Lungbarrow will have kids of their own at some point, right? So when someone asks me who’s my kid, I’ll just have to yank them by the arm, point at them and say…” he paused for effect and gave her a severe look—the full attack eyebrows. “ _Just this Smith._ ”

Clara stared at him—open mouthed, not breathing. She blinked once—then twice, thrice. The pun registered and she let her forehead drop against his arm. She whined a muffled ‘ _oh my goooood_ ’ against him and, though she could not yet see, he had the most smug look on his face for having delivered the joke that he’d been so clearly saving for the right moment.

She didn’t even want to look at him in that moment for her mind’s eye of how he looked right then was damn near a mirror image.

“That… is _singularly_ the _worst_ joke you have ever made… in your _entire_ life,” she said, exasperated as she raised her head again. But she was smiling—and that was enough for him. Clara continued, “And would only work if we only have one kid!”

“Right—so we have to have just one kid until someone asks that question. Then we can make another.”

“ _Jesus fucking Christ,_ ” she whispered, tucking in her lips and shaking her head. “You’re the worst. I can’t believe I’m hypothetically marrying you.”

He chuckled. She propped herself up then, her cheek against her palm as her elbow pressed against the pillow. She looked down at him, content if all she could ever see for the rest of her life was that look of complete reverence in his eyes as he looked up at her. He pulled her closer, his hand still by her lower back, and she leaned down to kiss him—but their lips had barely touched when her ducks started loudly quacking from her coat, discarded just a few feet away from where they lay.

“Ugh. Alarm,” she said, hanging her head. Clara got up quickly and ran to her phone, wanting nothing more than to shut that infernal alarm duck up, and shut it off. There were texts on the screen already—updates from her crew.

“Surprised you can still walk,” he said.

“Oh, fuck you,” she answered. He winked and grinned at her—too frustratingly proud of himself.

“I have to go. I still have to finish packing,” she said, pulling last night’s clothes back on while the Doctor sat up and started to do the same. She asked, “What time does your train leave tomorrow?”

“Six thirty?” he answered. “Not sure. Most people are coming ‘round today ‘cause of the weather—storm’s coming tomorrow.”

“How come?”

“Supposed to accompany the pianist or something so they don’t get lost. River wasn’t too clear with the instructions.”

“You should probably check,” she told him. “They’ve got everything scheduled down to the minute. Why do they want the ‘ _you may now kiss the bride_ ’ bit to be at exactly 17:02? I mean—there’s being meticulous and then there’s being a _massive,_ Kimye-sized pain in the arse.”

“Search me,” he answered. “Evan’s weird.”

“Tell me about it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Meanwhile, River’s not even picked what outfit she wants to go for,” she started as her phone started ringing—Shona, early to the studio as ever, and probably wondering where the hell she was. “I really should get going, though. Looks like it’s going to rain and Shona’s on my arse ‘cause there’s still so much to do.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” he asked, pulling a shirt on. “It won’t take me long to pack, my suit’s already at our room there. I could get a ticket, get the same train?”

“You’re sweet, but don’t be silly,” she said, jumping and shimmying to get her trousers back on. “Evan and River have already paid for your ticket. They were quite particular about it, actually.”

“So?”

“So…” she trailed off as she finally pulled her jumper on and walked over to him. Clara got on the tips of her toes, reached for his face, and leaned up to give him a quick kiss. She continued as she got back on her bare feet, her hand still against his cheek, “You don’t have to keep doing me favours or helping me so bloody selflessly all the time. You already have me. Always. You don’t have to try so hard; you know that, right?”

“I know,” he said simply, adoration so easy and clear in his eyes. “But I’d follow you anywhere,” he continued, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

And to him, it was.

Clara blinked up at him as heat rose to her cheeks. Open-mouthed, disbelieving smile, a loss for words and air—blinking up at him was all she knew could do right then. She didn’t know it but there, too, was that look he gave her mirrored back at him from her.

“Fine,” she agreed, grinning so widely that the dimples he loved seeing on her made their much-awaited appearance. “Your funeral. I’ve got a fair bit of set-up to do though so no complaining when we get there, yeah?”

“Yes, boss,” he said.

 

* * *

 

 

They arrived on-site just a few hours later— _Christmas Eve._

Clara tasked him with rolling their luggage up to their room while she oversaw Psi, Saibra, and the newly returned Journey Blue try desperately to account for the lighting changes due to the freak storm. They didn’t think it could be this bad—but they’d ignored all the signs and had hoped against hope.

He’d just finished setting her bags in and as he locked the door, a familiar mess of dark blonde curls bounced his way to him. If he didn’t know any better, there was worry in those eyes; and things were never good when _River Song_ was worried.

“Doctor!” she exclaimed. “You’re early!”

“Yeah,” he said. The Doctor furrowed his brows, studying her movements but just as quickly as he started to observe that something was wrong, River amended with an entirely different posture. Confident, happy, sure of herself. And that distressed him even more; something was wrong and she didn’t want him to know. He continued, “I thought I might give Clara and the others a hand with the set up. The storm and all.”

“Oh, but we—” she started but thought better of it and smiled instead. “Well, all right…”

“River,” he said. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Not sure I know what you mean,” she lied—so expertly that only he could see right through it; he’s known enough of her lies to know when she’s doing it. “I’ve got to go, though,” she added. “Getting married!”

The Doctor stared at her, as if he were trying to press the truth from her with the intensity of his eyes, but she would not budge—it was not the first time he’s tried the trick, after all.

“Third time’s the charm?” he joked instead, retreating for now though still wary.

“Oh hush, you,” she replied, playfully (and unconvincingly) swatting him on the arm.

Loud thunder rumbled from afar. It had been raining on and off the last few hours—the reports claimed that it was only going to get worse by tomorrow. The pair of them looked to the unforgiving, practically exploding skies with streaks of merciless lightning. The Doctor whistled.

“That’s not going to be a problem, is it?” he asked.

“What’s going to be a problem?” was her reply. “The rain?”

“I’ve got a bad feeling,” he said.

“Well, I’m sure it’ll pass on by tomorrow. And I’m sure we can move everything indoors if it doesn’t let up,” she said—far too sure of herself. She huffed and gave his face a squeeze with both hands. He frowned.

“Now… no scowling, dear. I’m getting married!”

 

* * *

 

 

Christmas arrived, as it always does, the following day.

A dreary, stressful Christmas it was as the staff had to quickly reinforce the tent setup to protect the area for the ceremony from the rain. The reception was, graciously, indoors. River and Evan had had enough pull with their contacts that this ancient, though renovated, Thornbury Castle in the Gloucestershire countryside could accommodate the festivities. While the couple were only renting it from their rich, _Lordly_ friends, the fact that they could pull something like this off was impressive in and of itself.

Clara Oswald and her team, as hired staff of the couple more than they were actual wedding guests, were tasked with helping out. For majority of the day, the Doctor and Clara were barely within the same vicinity of each other for the castle itself and its adjoining grounds were as massive as it was labyrinthine; it was peculiar that Amy and Rory hung on to them at nearly every turn, however, directing and redirecting orders that seemingly came from no one, but nobody thought it suspicious—especially when Rory was involved, for there was nobody less duplicitous than he.

And perhaps they _should_ have suspected something. In hindsight, Clara could see it all so clearly.

But mere hours before the ceremony, Clara Oswald and her team found a moment of reprieve for themselves, short as it was. The Doctor was believed to still be on the opposite end of the castle, fulfilling his Best Man duties as best he could when there was interference at nearly every turn. Outside, the rain poured and poured—very nearly Biblical.

Every corridor was permeated with the scent of petrichor and unspoken history.

While the wait staff set up the tables, Psi, Saibra, Journey, Amy, and Shona sequestered a bare one for themselves for a moment and it was filled with mostly tech – cameras, lenses, spare batteries, handheld flashes – and a bit of makeup, which was Saibra’s expertise.

When Clara finally made her approach, she made a show of slumping her shoulders and exaggeratedly slouching, as if she were dragging herself to the table. And, really, she was.

“There she is!” Psi greeted as he played a videogame on his phone.

“We were wondering how long you’d last up there,” Saibra added.

“Not for the first time she’s had to say that about you, Oz,” Psi chimed in.

“As long as nobody made any bets on me this time. I’m tired of making other people money and not getting a cut from it,” said Clara, taking a chair for herself. She sighed and threw a look at Amy. “Here’s looking at you, Pond.”

The redhead stuck out her tongue in retort.

“Why’d you call me down here for, anyway? And why aren’t you with the bridal party?” she asked. “It’s like they’re having a hair-off up there, it’s _insane._ I figured you’d stick around and show them all how it’s done, being the maid of honour and all.”

“Eh, it’s River’s day,” Amy replied. “Plus, I figured I’d have a better chance at some solo shots if I hung out with your lot. Also, I don’t think you’ve had lunch and it’s nearly 3 in the afternoon.”

Nearly on cue, Shona came up from behind Clara and set up a sandwich and a Red Bull can in front of her. Clara moaned her thanks, unable to speak, and ate.

“Mmm, cozying up to the media party,” Saibra said, appreciative, as she sprayed a clump of loo roll with cleaning fluid, and rigorously tried to clean her arsenal of makeup brushes. “We accept bribes in cash, cheque, and forward-slash or Waitrose gift cards.”

“Honestly, though. That bridal party’s a nightmare,” said Psi, throwing his head back and placing his feet on top of the table. “I appreciate a bit of confidence as much as the next one but _Jesus Christ._ ”

“I can’t believe this is how we’re spending fucking Christmas,” Saibra agreed, kicking his feet off the table and throwing him a look. Psi stuck his tongue out at her.

“You’re getting holiday pay, though, aren’t you?” Journey tried, annoyed.

“Ta, but you can’t buy your _sanity_ back, can you?” he retorted.

“Tell me about it,” said Saibra, rolling her eyes as she worked on a new brush. “If that batty old bird tries to touch my hair one more time, I’m going to _fucking_ lose it.”

“Who is she, anyway?” asked Clara as she took another bite of her sandwich. “She’s not dressed in the bridal party’s motif.”

“Don’t know,” Shona answered. “Pianist or something, I think?”

“She kept looking at me funny the whole time,” Clara added. “It was _unnerving_. And—”

“How was the groom’s lot, though?” Amy interrupted. “Rory doing okay?”

“Merciful, thank God,” Clara answered. “Your future husband’s a saint. I have to say, though… it was weird to see Evan in a suit like that,” she said as she took another bite. She covered her slightly full mouth with a hand and added, “I tried to talk him out of the top hat, I swear on my life.”

“I don’t know, it does something for me,” Amy teased. “So does the walking stick,”

“Speaking of walking stick,” said Journey, only barely affording any of them a glance as she busied herself with her camera. “We’ve got incoming.”

Clara swallowed and looked behind her only to see her suspicions confirmed—the Doctor making a brisk way to them all. Nobody paid attention to how Amy Pond’s eyes widened at the sight him—in fear, not in delight.

“Hey, you,” Clara greeted. The Doctor pulled a chair from the neighbouring table and sat himself next to her. An elbow against the table, she had her chin resting on her palm. “Why aren’t you with Evan?”

“If I had to stay there any longer, I would have strangled him with his scarf,” he answered, mimicking her position.

When Saibra spoke, they turned their heads towards her in perfect synchronicity. The makeup artist said, “Speaking of strangulation, I’m being called in again.”

“She’s going for the red one instead, isn’t she?” Clara asked, partly amused and mostly exasperated as she finished the last of her sandwich.

“This isn’t fucking ‘Say Yes to the Dress’!” complained the truly exhausted makeup artist. But then again, she _was_ cleaning her brushes for a reason; she’d expected this.

Psi opened up his Twitter app and typed as he said, “‘Who brings a whole fucking wardrobe to pick her fucking wedding gown on the day of her fucking wedding???’ Hashtag, all caps: _HELP US._ ”

“Hashtag, crying in the club right now,” Saibra added as she got up from her chair.

“Crying in the club?” the Doctor asked.

“It’s a Twitter thing,” Clara answered. “It’s just a thing people say now.”

“Pfft, crying in the club,” he said. “Back in my day, we panicked at the disco.”

The table erupted in loud, raucous laughter, but the Doctor only wanted to see Clara’s reaction—and he found himself delighted when he saw that his girlfriend was beside herself as she laughed at his stupid joke. He was also proud to note that even the ever-stoic Journey Blue chuckled.

“ _Fucking hell,_ ” Psi said, near tears.

“What do you see in him, Oz, _honestly?_ ” Shona pitched in.

“Well, for a _start_ —” Psi began but Saibra cut him off.

“Don’t you start,” she said, though still laughing herself.

“She asked!” he defended.

“Behave yourselves!” Clara warned, good-naturedly as she rose from her chair. She popped open the can of Red Bull. “I’ve got to go.”

“Where are you going?” the Doctor asked, frowning immediately at the thought of her leaving when he’d only just got there. He’d made her laugh! Surely that earned a few minutes in her company, right?

“Well, if the bride’s changing again, I’ll need new shots,” said Clara with a sigh, though she still kept up her smile despite it all.

“Need any he—” he started.

“ _Doctor—_ ” she said as he began his offer, but Amy interrupted.

“Actually, I’ll take him!” said the redhead. “I’m going to borrow him for a little while. I need a new profile photo and the guide said there was a really cool spiral staircase somewhere here, come on!”

“You heard her,” Clara relented.. From the pile of tech on the table, she reached and picked out a sleek, black and silver square—her brand new Fujifilm Instax SQ10, a new age polaroid camera with digital capabilities—like storage and a wireless connection to Clara’s back up system. She handed it to him and said, “Here. New toy. Fully loaded. Fairly easy to use. Don’t break her, she’s brand new.”

She crouched and kissed him on the cheek before he could argue—and, really, he couldn’t argue when she’d already made the decision. He could only sigh. Clara ruffled his hair and smiled down at him.

“See you later.”

 

* * *

 

 

The ceremony happened not more than two hours later.

At precisely 17:02 – or 5:02PM, for those who aren’t on a 24 hour clock – Dr and Dr Song-Smith kissed as they were finally declared husband and wife.

The pair were known for their exaggerated flair as they’d actually planned for their marriage to happen above ground—with everyone in the baskets of hot air balloons while the castle appeared beneath them all. Clara Oswald thanked her lucky stars that 1) that didn’t happen 2) she wasn’t the one marrying this particular groom. The couple had wanted fireworks as well – even when their hot air balloon idea was still up in the air – but the rain made this mercifully impossible.

An added quirk of the ceremony, Clara had to note, was the peculiar colour scheme. The bride had opted for all her female guests to arrive in white meanwhile hers was a gown of jeweled bright red—embroidered and sequined to the nines, with a black faux fur collar.

There were only a select number of women who opted out the scheme—Clara and the women on her team were in characteristic dark colours, of course. Clara herself was in a black dress mostly decorated in orange flowers, a brown belt cinching her waist, and a dark green, check lined rain mac.

The only other woman who was both not in the given scheme and was not in Clara’s team, was the pianist—a woman she was not quite formally introduced to. A woman made of sharp edges, untamable hair, and a decidedly deep purple outfit.

Though Clara was unsure of why, she could have sworn that that woman had had her eyes on her the entire time—and it was not a kind stare, either. It was one that sent a chill down her spine when she thought about it – and so she didn’t. She put the strange, piano-playing woman out of her mind for the time being; after all, she was inconsequential to the plot at hand, wasn’t she?

( _God, she was so wrong. She was so, so wrong._ )

The couple refused the traditional post-ceremonial newly wed photoshoot, aside from the necessary shots just after their vows. Clara acquiesced eventually, though she’d insisted but then got to thinking that she was getting paid for less work, which was fine by her, she supposed.

And so the reception was in full swing inside the main dining hall after the ceremony was over.

The women were in a sea of white dresses – Clara thought to herself that post-processing these photos were going to be hell. So many of the women looked practically identical with their blonde hair and blue eyes and white dresses with lace as they had all thought themselves to be original with the idea. They weren’t.

Yet, still, the reception that followed had a rather spectacularly brilliant start. Everything went off without a hitch and the in-house planners with Thornbury Castle knew their way inside and out of the festivities. As neither of the couple had parents, however, the primary speech to look forward to was the Doctor’s.

Of course, he was brilliant.

Truthfully, she didn’t know if he had prepared his speech beforehand or if he was making it up as he went along. The Doctor, after all, was articulate to a fault and he always, _always_ knew the words to say. If she weren’t a professional, she might have found herself proudly enthralled as he recounted embarrassing tales of both the bride and groom, given that he had a connection to the both of them—though he tried not to linger on his previous 24 hour dalliance with the bride.

Unlike his speech at Tenth and Rose’s wedding, however, he made a particular note at the end of his speech. In front of their friends, he declared that he was retiring from the Best Man business – he would no longer accept any further requests and that he’d done it too many times. He made it known that if they ever wanted the certainty of his attendance at their own respective weddings – they knew the photographer to book. Clara smirked at the sheer cheek of it.

He raised his glass—to the bride and groom, he’d said, _may it finally work out for her this time around and may he actually stick around so it could._

Congratulations.

In hindsight, she’ll notice that Amy and the Pianist Woman was nowhere to be seen during this speech. When the time came for the dance, Rory and the Doctor were nowhere to be seen while the pianist played a beautiful waltz for the newly wedded couple.

 

* * *

 

Clara Oswald was all smiles as she did the rounds on the floor of the reception. People danced and made merry along the dance floor, in huddled groups by themselves. The dimmed lights made it excellent for the strobe, disco lights that Evan had requested so he could do his ridiculous, drunk giraffe dances with the children in attendance while his new wife danced with everyone else.

When it had calmed enough that she could take a short break by the bar, she found herself followed by a welcome figure.

“Hey, you,” she greeted.

“Hey,” he said back, more subdued. Exhaustion clear in the Doctor’s tired, red rimmed eyes but he still managed a smile, and a touch of humour. “Backed up your cards yet?”

“Oh, shut up,” Clara replied with a tired laugh of her own. “So far, so good—well, as good as we can get, given everything. There wasn’t any backseat directing from some mad Scotsman this time so I can’t complain too much.”

He blinked away his oncoming lethargy… but it was more than that, she noticed. The look on his face made her furrow her brows and she frowned. She asked him, “What? What is it?”

“What’s what?” he replied, dazed.

“That face you’re making. It’s all frowny. All you’re missing is your own mood lighting and quite frankly, the accent is enough—what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he answered—too quick and rehearsed to be true. She gave him a look in answer, calling him out and he sighed in resignation. “Have people been… looking at you strangely? Treating you all… different?”

“Me?” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “No, not at all. Not more than usual, at least. Why?”

“Amy and Rory have been odd since this morning. Evan and River haven’t looked me in the eye _once_. Not even during my toast,” he explained. “I feel like people are avoiding me. Looking at me all funny.”

His words left a weight inside her—a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Fight or flight, and she wanted to _run_. He felt it too. She saw it in his eyes, and he saw it in hers, and he found his suspicions confirmed.

“Doctor, I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said, trying to comfort him, but they both knew she didn’t believe it either—she was certain of nothing.

“I don’t know why,” he started. “But I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“Might have a little something to do with me, honey,” said a voice from behind him.

The voice sent a chill down his spine.

He dared not look.

It couldn’t be her.

But she spoke again.

“Miss me?”

 

* * *

  

“What? Cat got your tongue?” she prodded and bit the air with all of her teeth. It was the Pianist Woman.

She wore a Cheshire grin—wicked if Clara ever saw one, but she didn’t quite know what to make of it. The other woman carried on and said, leaning closer to practically whisper in his ear, “Oh, come on, you silly sausage. Say something nice.”

He turned his back to Clara and faced the woman and found the vision to be true.

“Missy,” he whispered.

His eyes were wide, suddenly wide-awake, and he stood at attention. He clenched his fists and swallowed. At the back of his mind, he knew he could feel Clara’s hand press gently on his arm as she stepped forward to stand beside him.

“Mmm, I always did like it when you said my name like that,” said Missy, resting on the other side of him with her chin atop his shoulder. “ _My_ Doctor.” She tilted her head and batted her lashes. “How long has it been for you? Thirty years? Forty? Who’s counting?”

The Doctor could only stare at her with his mouth agape. Missy laughed, crass and a touch too brightly.

“Oh, come on,” she went on. “Tell me you’re pleased to see me.” He still said nothing. “Even a tiny bit pleased? Oh, go on. Crack a smile. I want to see if your eyebrows drop off.”

The Doctor and Missy stared at each other—Clara wasn’t sure if he was breathing. But Missy’s eyes were on him like a predator to cornered prey.

“Hi,” Clara tried, putting on her most professional smile. She raised her camera—a universal gesture of uncertainty. “Photo for the album?” she asked.

“Oh, excellent idea!” said Missy.

Clara took a few steps backward and raised her camera. The Doctor looked towards the lens with an unchanging expression of sheer shock. Missy gave a pose with a hand on her hip and duck lips. A click later, Clara offered a hand for the other woman to shake.

“Clara Oswald,” she tried. “Pleased to properly meet you…?”

“Missy, dear,” she answered, looking at the smaller woman’s outstretched hand as if amused. Clara retracted the offer just as quick but was not quite so swift to drop the courtesy. Missy continued, “So _you’re_ the new girlfriend I’ve heard _so_ much about. How _fun_.”

Clara’s eyes went to the Doctor but he could only stand there, still not quite certain what to say. Truthfully, Clara didn’t quite know what to say to that either. The older Scotswoman went on, “Well, I’m sure the Doctor’s told you all about _me_ , right?”

“’Fraid not,” came her ready reply; although true, the context clues let her make a few assumptions. Clara continued, “Should he have?”

“Missy—” he started, underneath his breath. Practically growled.

“Oh,” said woman with a look in her eyes like a cat had just captured the laser pointer’s light. “He’s not told you, has he?” she added. Clara blinked; Missy smirked.

“Pity,” she said. “My condolences. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see a perfectly pristine little wedding cake begging for a little fingering.” A look at the Doctor’s hand—the one where the band rested on his ring finger, and there was that glint in her eyes again.

“Carry on,” Missy said, finally, still grinning like she’d just won a long gamble. “Have fun.”

“ _Missy,_ ” he said again, more forceful this time.

“Oh, don’t you worry. We’re having words,” Missy spat, her expression turning severe. He swallowed. Her eyes went to Clara and back to him, and her wolfish grin returned. “Just not in front of the puppy, you know? T-T-F-N, my dear,” she continued in a honeyed, histrionic whisper. “Ta-ta for now.”

 

* * *

 

 

The jovial tones of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” did not seem entirely out of place once Missy started playing with particular flourish on the piano—evidently enjoying herself while the other guests in attendance, including the children, simply ran with it. There was no particular sense of order in this wedding – despite the setting – and yet, considering the newly married couple in question, it was fitting enough to the theme.

Yet for the Doctor and Clara, the music couldn’t be farther away as she took him aside and he operated on a kind of autopilot as he let himself be guided.

“What—” she started. “What was that? Doctor?”

No response came from his stilled, slightly opened mouth as his eyes glazed over past her and he stared at nothing in particular

“Hey,” Clara tried again as a sudden flash of lightning illuminated her face, with the telltale crack of thunder coming in quick succession. From where they were standing, she could feel the cool damp air blow towards her, messing up her hair. She reached up to cup his cheek, her big brown eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he finally answered. The Doctor swallowed and looked into her eyes. “No, I’m not. She—” he swallowed again and licked his lips and added, “She shouldn’t be here. She’s up to something.”

“Hey,” said Clara, dropping her camera and letting it dangle from her neck. She put her other hand on his other cheek, trying to calm him and making him focus on her. “Whoever she is… it’ll be okay, come here” she told him, bringing him into her embrace. It took a few seconds for his arms to follow in the motions for they were stiff and still before they wrapped around her svelte form and he held her tightly. He buried his nose into her neck and sighed.

“What do you need?” she asked as she hugged him that much tighter. She didn’t understand what was happening—or who she was, but it was clear that it wasn’t the time to ask him any questions.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“We can go, if you want.” Clara broke herself off from his embrace and she put her hands on his shoulders. The Doctor looked at her with those lost, frightened eyes of his and it damn near broke her heart. She continued, “We can go. Right now.”

“You don’t understand—” he said, holding her face in his hands. “You still have to shoot the reception and—”

“The others can cover for me,” she interrupted. She never flinched or faltered—her focus, solely on him. “I’ve already done the hard bits—and, anyway, it doesn’t matter. We can go, if you want… if you need me to. We can leave. Right now.”

The Doctor exhaled and licked his lips. More than anything, he wanted to do as she bid and simply run. Run far, far away—the way he always did when he was afraid; or just the one time that he was. He was tempted to simply take Clara far away and build something good and new, far away where nobody knew who either of them were and the demons of their past would never find them.

But Clara had family here—a life, a plan. Like he did now, he came to realise. Travel, get married, have kids, travel some more… just like she said. Just like he wanted now—and he realised he finally, finally had something worth fighting for. So he couldn’t run, he decided right then as he looked at her worried face.

He knew that if he asked, she wouldn’t hesitate—she would leave with him and never return. And she would despise him for it eventually. The Doctor licked his lips and swallowed—nervous but certain.

“No, no, I—I’ll be all right,” he said somberly. “There’s something I have to do.”

“Are you sure?” Clara asked, one of her hands grasping one of his that was still cupping her by the cheek. She kissed his palm and he sighed. His stance loosened.

“Yeah,” he told her as he leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “Yeah, I just—”

The Doctor couldn’t finish. He looked at her then and saw the look in her eyes—the confusion, the fear—and he couldn’t finish. He leaned in and ducked down to kiss her—his hand flat against her cheek while his other hand rested by the small of her back as he pulled her to him. Clara more than obliged him as this was one they needed.

She didn’t know why it felt like he was kissing her goodbye—she didn’t understand why it felt so final for it felt as if he were suffocating and all the air left in the universe was from her lips, in her lungs.

“Doctor—” she started to whisper.

“I need to do this,” he said, resolute. As if an afterthought, he took the small, new digital Polaroid camera from his jacket pocket and gave it to her.

“Here,” he told her. “It’s got one shot left.”

“This had _twenty_ prints before you took it,” she said with a half-hearted laugh.

“Amy,” he said, as if that answered everything. And it did. Clara smiled, so he did too.

“Okay,” she said.

As the Doctor started to move away, she called him back. “Hey!”

He turned around.

“I love you,” she said. “I’ll be close by, if you need.”

 

* * *

  

Surprisingly enough, it took a while for the Doctor to find Missy. After her little ragtime number in the main dining hall, some of the guests had taken to exploring the castle. There were still the last lingering rays of sunlight—despite the storm, and it was a nice enough picture.

As he searched, he recalled another time—one with Clara. In a place much like this one, though it wasn’t quite a castle; a different storm and a night with a different ending all together.

The Doctor’s lungs felt heavy and drowned as he ran from corridor to corridor in pursuit of Missy. Drowned, one might ask? Oh, just the thought of Missy was enough to bring back thoughts of more water in his mind—an unforgiving lake, he remembered, and a truly horrid day… one he never wished to remember again but oh, how it came back to him in vivid clarity now.

He twisted and turned the ring on his finger.

It was when he found himself at the end of a dark, hidden corridor that he found her. It was just by the entrance to the spiral staircase that led to one of the more secluded towers in the castle.

“Lost something?” said a voice from behind him and it chilled him to the bone. The Doctor turned around and there she was, sauntering her way over to him as if she’d been one step ahead of him this whole time.

“Missy,” he said.

“Miss me?” she asked. “You never answered my question earlier.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he spat.

“Tsk tsk, temper temper!” she teased but her features painted a different message entirely. There was rage in those eyes—a poison stare. “After everything you’ve done—you’re the one who’s mad at me? That’s rich,” she said with particular vitriol.

The Doctor took a step back.

“She seems nice,” Missy commented offhandedly, placing both her hands on her hips. “She’s _cute_ , if you like that lost, kicked puppy sort of look—never took you for a cradle-snatcher, though. Suppose we all have our kinks…” she trailed off and looked at her long nails flippantly.

“I’m not talking to you about Clara,” he said. Missy turned her head so swiftly that it made him flinch.

“Why not?” she asked, with exaggerated, mocking flourish. “You seem pretty helplessly devoted to your new little pet; it’s kind of pathetic.”

“Why are you even here?” said the Doctor.

“I was invited,” she told him matter-of-factly. “We were supposed to catch up on the train but apparently, you made other plans last minute. By your neck, I’ll gauge little miss moppet had something to do with it.”

“I had no idea you were going to be here—” he started but she cut him off.

“And if you knew, what would you have done? Run away again?” she said loudly. Bitterly. “I was under the impression you wanted to finally, finally make things right!”

His jaw dropped and the Doctor found himself slowly backing against a wall. Missy approached—carefree as ever, though she was cornering him. No one could see how his hand shook.

“What—you think I haven’t waited?” she baited.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, pained.

“Because I _have_ waited!” she said, pushing his chest with such force that his back, then his head met the wall with a _THUD!_ Missy didn’t flinch. “Years, Doctor—years! From that day you left me waiting at that altar, I have _waited_ for you to make things fucking right!”

As she said the last sentence, she poked him in the chest repeatedly—beat by beat.

The Doctor grit his teeth and swallowed. He could feel his heart racing in the cage of his chest and, more than anything, he wanted to run. He looked at Missy’s eyes—those eyes he used to know so well, those eyes that saw him at his very, very worst and he saw that she was angry with him. He felt that rage—but there, too, was the gleam of hurt when she looked at him. The Doctor hadn’t seen her in decades – and this was by his own design – and yet, to look upon her, you’d think that he left her at the altar just minutes ago. The wound of his desertion was cut open and fresh as it bled; he could tell.

“And now I’m supposed to what? Watch you elope with that floozy little girl—watch her get everything that _you_ promised me? That girl who doesn’t even know you like I do?” she declared, almost in hysterics. He wanted her to calm down—they could speak about this where nobody else had to hear. But Missy’s words were daggers in his chest—his anxieties wrapped in flesh and wild hair, coming straight at him as she poked and pushed his chest.

“Do you really think she’d still want you if she knew you? The way _I_ do? After _Torvic?_ ” she asked, contempt like acid rife in her tone.

“Fact of the matter is, you can have as many of your little darlings as you want but you’re still going to have to face the fact, my dear. You and me? We’re inevitable,” she said, holding his face with one hand—her thumb and middle finger on either side of his neck as she pressed against him, and pressed him against the wall.

Missy continued in her tirade and the Doctor couldn’t make himself speak for tears were starting to build in his eyes; he felt as if there were water in his lungs. The name she’d spoken rang in his mind over and over again— _Torvic, Torvic, Torvic_. It was as if he were trapped in an endless nightmare that he could not, for some reason, wake himself up from.

It would be too kind.

“No one is _ever_ going to know you like I do—or even if they knew, do you think they’d stay the way I would? The way I have?” she asked him. He swallowed, not wanting to look her in the eyes, but her hand was hard against his wind pipe and he coughed. “I doubt they’d want to stick around once they realise the truth and find out what you’re _really_ like and what you’re _really_ capable of.”

Missy sneered.

“They’d run, Doctor—far, far away, and you’d be alone again. And you and I both know that.”

He looked at her then with wide eyes and he struggled to breathe, to swallow. He knit his brows together and his hands were at her arm that held him in place. But her look shifted in the blink of an eye and her hand went from his neck to his cheek, where her palm lay flat against the side of his face. His eyes were wet and red-rimmed with tears.

“Not me, though,” she said, suddenly mirroring the look he gave her. There was the hurt again—from the wound he knew he caused. His fault, he knew. But she kept going and her voice was thick with emotion. “I won’t run. Because it’s always going to be you and me—‘til the end of time. Us against the world, or don’t you remember? Do you even know who you are without _me?_ ”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Missy,” he said, a tear running down his face.

“I want you owe me!” she yelled as she pushed at him again, swiftly turning to collect herself then facing him again. “You _promised_ me you would take care of me! _Be_ with me!

“We were the same—we _are_ the same. We were going to go find Gallifrey—our pretend little dreamland and make it a kingdom of our own. King and Queen, you and me. After that day in the lake, after _Torvic_ —”

“We were children!” he yelled back.

“And you still promised!” she spat. “You said you’d protect me—after what I did for you, what I’ve done… and you ran from me. You left me _alone._ ”

“Stop it—” he tried.

“And we were not children when I asked you to marry me and we were not children when you said _yes._ ”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did!”

“You’re the one who just decided that I would marry you—I never agreed to it, you just—”

“Cut the bullshit, Doctor—you’re the one who said you’d always be with me. You promised you’d never leave me. But you did,” she told him. A shadow moved in the corner of her vision but neither of them paid it any mind. “You left me there at that altar, honey.

“You. _Left._ Me.”

The Doctor hung his head and sighed as he ran both his hands through his hair and pulled.

“But it’s okay!” Missy told him.

And the next thing he knew was that Missy’s tongue was in his mouth. She kissed him—hard. Missy had backed him against the wall and his arms didn’t quite know how to react. She took her time kissing him—moaning into his mouth as her tongue bade his to respond. One of her hands was at his throat again and her other hand held him to her by the hip.

When she finally let him breathe, he was too stunned to move—it was all he could do for his brain to remember how his lungs worked.

“We can still have a go at it—you and I,” she whispered to him, softly sweetly. A flash of lightning came as the corridor was growing darker and darker by the second as the sun made its exit. “You can make it up to me for the rest of our lives and I can have my _friend_ back—my Doctor back! You’re even still wearing our ring! We can run away together, forget everything that happened, everything you did. Leave everyone else behind—none of them matter half as much as you and I do. I’ll forgive you if you just come back to me. Just you and me. We can go together—just like the old days.”

Tears ran down her cheeks as she spoke—and oh, how her voice was full to brim with heavy emotion. To hear her say this… his oldest friend, and how he knew so much of what she’d said to be true…

He’d done this to her, he knew. The Doctor had hurt her for years and years when he left her at that altar, when he’d apparently said yes to marrying her in the face place, when he’d let her do what she did at the lake that day when they were children and Torvic… _Torvic_ …

The Doctor licked his lips and held her face. His thumbs brushed her tears away from her cheeks, with heartbreak clear in his eyes.

“Missy…” he started. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He leaned in to kiss her then and Missy’s eyes fluttered shut when he did. He kissed her deeply—but it was not the kind of kiss she wanted. He was gentle, where she was rough, and he poured an apology into this old greeting of theirs… and goodbye.

For no matter how many of Missy’s words rang true to him, there was still Clara. And he couldn’t, he just couldn’t go with his oldest friend despite him echoing her fondest wish in his heart of hearts. She wanted her friend back, she’d said—so did he. But he couldn’t, and he was just about to part from her when—

_FLASH!_

Lightning—but it wasn’t, for it was accompanied by a camera click instead of thunder; he reasoned that right then, it might as well have been for it was just as loud. The pair turned their heads quickly to where the flash had come from and the Doctor looked in horror to see the other end.

“Well…” said Clara. She looked at the polaroid camera in her hands and watched as the film developed. The two were too stunned to comment; and Clara was too quick.

“You got over what was bothering you pretty quick,” she said—too sweetly to be true. “Nice to know you’ve both worked it all out.”

“Clara—” he started. He tried to speak over her. “I can explain—”

Clara smiled—too far away from them for him to see her heart break in her eyes.

“I hope you’re very happy together.”

 

* * *

  

Clara couldn’t work properly when the Doctor left her in search of, from what she could gather, was a particularly memorable ex-girlfriend. She never begrudged him his past—content to let him tell her bits and pieces when he was ready to tell her.

But as she did her rounds and took the necessary photos, her mind was elsewhere. Her work suffered for it, she knew, but she just couldn’t get the thought of her boyfriend out of her mind. She had never seen him look so afraid before—and she wondered if leaving him to go look for his ex was something that she should have done, that should have let him do.

She left her gear with Shona, save for the Polaroid camera still in her coat pocket, to go look for him. Uncharacteristic of her during a job this big, yes, but she was too out of it. She couldn’t concentrate until she knew that he was okay. Clara gave no explanation for her actions and, from the look on her face, they didn’t question her for it.

She searched for him through many an occupied corridor—sometimes stumbling along copulating couples in a supply closet, a bedroom that they’d forgotten to lock; she was too distraught to be embarrassed and more than once, the couple didn’t even notice.

Soon enough, she heard Missy’s telltale voice from a nearby corridor. Just by the very edge of one of the corners of the castle. She followed the voice and when she stumbled onto their scene, she simultaneously wished she didn’t.

“You left me there at that altar, honey,” said Missy. “You. _Left._ Me.”

Clara’s heart and jaw dropped when she heard that and when saw Missy kiss him; she quickly stepped back into the corner from where she’d come and placed a hand against her heart. She didn’t make a sound, quiet as a mouse, as Missy kept going on and on with things that Clara could only barely register.

 _It wasn’t true,_ she thought to herself. Fear crept in her veins like a malicious morphine drip. _It can’t be…_

When she made herself look at the scene again when he apologised to her—for what? Leaving Missy at the altar? The ring on his finger suddenly made sense.

Her heart felt heavy with the knowledge and her knees shook. And when the Doctor looked at Missy with those eyes—no, he couldn’t be… Christ, he was looking at Missy like _that_. With _those_ eyes.

And when the Doctor held Missy’s face in his hands and he kissed her, all Clara could do was stand there. Open-mouthed as she felt her breaking in its cage, all the air getting knocked out of her lungs, and all courage melting from her bones and there was nothing left in her but a bleeding, open hurt.

A second later, she took the polaroid camera from her rain mac’s pocket—it was too dark for a decent photo and so she turned on the flash. She raised the viewfinder to her eye and she took the shot. She pressed her lips together and her face was as expressionless as she could make it—apathy-made adrenaline so she could run.

No way in fucking hell would she let them see her crumble. She has time to bleed out later.

“Well… you got over what was bothering you pretty quick,” she said, too genial to be genuine.

“Clara—” he started and her name on his lips felt like shards of broken glass to her suddenly petal-soft heart.

“Nice to know you’ve both worked it all out.”

“I can explain—”

She even smiled.

“I hope you’re very happy together.”

 

* * *

 

 

A few corridors away, a familiar redhead found her laughter with her friend, the groom, suddenly cut short when her fiancé came running towards them with a worrying expression. Amy’s face fell.

“Rory—” she started, but Rory wasted no time.

“Amy, I can’t find them.”

“What?” she asked, far too loudly.

“I can’t find the Doctor or Clara,” Rory replied, breathless.

“Okay, okay. I’m sure everything’ll be fine, but—” Evan insisted as he started turning circles on the spot. “Where’s Missy?”

“Oh, fuck,” Amy whispered. And as the realisation settled in, she yelled, “Fuck!”

 

* * *

 

 

The initial shock of seeing Clara at the end of that corridor lasted long enough that she got a head start when she ran off to who knows where—all he knew was that he had to follow her.

It wasn’t what it looked like, he would say. He hated himself for how it sounded but it was the truth; he didn’t know how he was going to explain this or how he could fix it. But he knew he needed to follow her; he knew he needed to make this right.

He didn’t see how Missy had just resigned herself to the leaning against the wall, smirking like she’d won— _again_. He didn’t even say goodbye. He simply ran. Missy, in her head, told herself that she was used to it. It was only a matter of time now, after all.

The Doctor ran after Clara and pushed through the steadily more crowded corridors as he neared the main hall. She wasn’t there. Exiting the hall, he ran through the primary grounds. There was hardly anyone else there for the rain was still heavy as it poured down into the night.

He saw half of her team, Psi and Saibra, before he saw her—and they were busy working in a secluded corner by themselves, already packing up some of their bigger equipment, as they readied themselves for the last run through around the hall for the night. They were on the other side of a luscious garden and the only reason he saw them was because Psi was struggling to fold a reflector back into place.

It was this flash of sudden light, however, that let Clara know where they were—and so the Doctor found her too.

“Clara!” he called out as he ran after her. “Clara, please…”

He tried to reach for her arm but she yanked it away just as soon as

“ _Don’t touch me!_ ” she screamed and he flinched back. Her voice broke for it was full of emotion but she composed herself just so, and she pointed a finger at him. Her voice became low—a warning. “Don’t you ever, _ever_ touch me—ever again.”

Clara swallowed. “You… you stay away from me, do you hear me?”

“I can explain…” he tried.

“Explain what?” she said, as calmly as she could but the bitterness made its way through. Her team was already starting to make their way to the couple as they’d just about dropped everything when they heard Clara scream at him. And she continued, “Explain how you’ve apparently got some ex-fucking- _fiancée_ who you just left at the altar and she just magically reappears and you and her… and, God, _you_ just…”

Her voice broke again and she willed for the rest of her not to do the same. She didn’t even cry, though her eyes shone with unshed tears that begged for release but she wouldn’t. Not in front of him.

“Clara—”

“You made me think—” she started but with her heartbeat racing, how bile rose to her throat, she could barely get all the words out. “You made me _believe_ that I… that we…” A single tear left her eye and she wiped it away just as quickly as it fell.

“I thought—God, I’m so stupid, I thought you…”

“Hey, hey—” Psi interrupted and he saw the Doctor’s face, but his concern was for her. When he saw those eyes of hers, his face fell and he held her face with both hands. “Oz. Clara, love. What’s going on?”

“What does it look like?” she spat, as she showed them the polaroid photo from her coat pocket. She pushed it to Psi’s chest and he took it from her and looked. Saibra, who had her hand on Clara’s arm, looked at the photo from the side and her own eyes widened as she processed the content of the photograph. Psi, however, grit his teeth—his expression, unreadable. His shoulders stiffened.

The Doctor took a step back.

“I can explain,” he tried weakly.

“Keep him far away from me,” said Clara softly, not sparing him a look. Saibra nodded and the pair let Clara go.

“ _Clara—_ ” the Doctor tried but Psi stopped him, placing a hand on the older man’s chest to push him back.

“You heard her,” Psi spat.

“Psi, you don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand fucking _plenty,_ mate!” Psi replied, louder, as he pushed the Doctor further back. “Picture’s worth a thousand fucking words and you want to explain _now?_ You really think she’d want any- _fucking_ -thing to do with you?”

Shona, then, arrived to the scene from behind the Doctor. Journey was still in the main hall.

“No one ever tells me anything anymo—woah, what’s up with you two?” asked the blonde.

The glare from Psi never left his eyes as he looked at the Doctor. He didn’t even need to look but he extended his arm to show Shona the photograph, and it took her less than a second to understand. The Doctor swallowed and in his eyes was a look of exhaustion, of desperation; he hadn’t seen the photo before then but, as he and Shona were in the same line of sight, he caught a glimpse of what Clara saw and his heart fell.

“Oh, I will fucking mark you—” Shona started, her hands just about ready to claw his face off.

“Shona,” said Psi, still glowering at the Doctor. “She needs you.”

“Go to hell,” Shona spat at the Doctor and went off running to search for her boss. Her _friend_.

“You go anywhere near her again and I’ll fucking kill you myself,” Psi warned, his voice low. He sneered at the other man and the Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but he wouldn’t have it. He added, “She was _good_ to you. And she _loved_ you. God, she loved you so much.”

“It isn’t what it looks like—” the Doctor finally tried, and he was met with a punch to the face before he could finish.

“Like hell it is!” Psi yelled as he punched the Doctor again with all of his might. The Doctor fell to the ground. Though he managed to break his fall with his arms, his head still fell against the floor. Psi kept going with the punches—verbal and physical. “What the _fuck_ is it _supposed_ to look like?”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Saibra said, grabbing Psi back by the arm. “Enough! Psi, enough!”

Clara swiftly walked past the scene, her cameras slung around her neck, and she didn’t look. Shona followed soon after, calling after her boss. The Doctor didn’t see as he coughed and spat out blood. There was a bleeding cut near his right temple, and by his lip.

“He’s a dirty, fucking cheater!” Psi spat at the Doctor. “And he _fucking_ knows it.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Smile!” Clara said, grinning.

The couple before her did as she asked—girlfriends who had their arms around each other. Clara looked at the shot and nodded at them enthusiastically and said, “Beautiful! Thanks so much.”

They thanked her and Clara moved on to the next table, going through the motions once again. She had a final run through along the main hall and she couldn’t stop working—she willed herself to not think about anything else. The crowd around them was thinning as the celebrations came to an end and, she noted, that Amy and Rory couldn’t be found. Neither could Missy, but she forced herself not to think about the pianist.

“Hey, smile for the album?” she asked a small family at a table, with what looked like a man lulling a child to sleep in his arms. He did as the photographer requested and she grinned at him, as if nothing was wrong. She nodded and told him, “That’s great! Thanks so much!”

She was nothing if not resilient—functioning, despite so many gears that kept her together bustling together and she wanted nothing more than to hit the big friendly button that would let her self-destruct. Or let her start this all over in the first place—go back to Tenth and Rose’s wedding and never accept that goddamn glass of champagne in the first place.

Clara kept her face on, however, and smiled for the entire world to see.

She was fine. She will not let this break her.

Shona approached her and, finally, Clara allowed the blonde to get close enough.

“Clara—” Shona started. Clara’s smile was unsettling to anyone who knew her well—she was smiling but her eyes… Christ, her _eyes_.

“Yeah?” she asked, just a touch too brightly.

“Are… are you okay?” asked Shona.

“’Course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Clara answered. With a quirk of a brow, Shona called her boss out on her bullshit. Her façade faltered for a moment but she closed her eyes and exhaled a sigh. “Not now, okay? I’m a fucking _professional_ and I was hired to do a job. So I’m going to do it.”

From another end of the room, Journey approached the two. Concern in her eyes and when she asked, her voice was uncharacteristically soft. A reserved kindness for only those she deemed worthy. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Thank God,” Clara muttered. Another tear fell and she wiped it away. Journey caught the trick but didn’t press for Clara then said, “Don’t ask. Just… just keep working the floor.”

Journey nodded but not without giving Clara’s shoulder a squeeze and a parting ‘ _hang in there!_ ’ smile.

“Shona, I’m fine,” Clara said to her secretary slash personal assistant slash one of her best mates—and, in truth, she really needed the latter more than she needed an employee. “But I’m going to need you to book me a new train ticket out of here. First one you can manage.”

“I’ll get on it straightaway,” said Shona, nodding and getting the iPad out of the bag slung on her shoulder.

“I’m going to guess you saw the polaroid, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Shona held Clara’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “Clara, you know you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” Clara replied, giving a small smile in response. “Reception’s not done and I’m seeing this through.”

Psi, then, arrived for he’d been looking for them since he left Saibra with the equipment for the moment. His knuckles were bruised and there was a spattering of blood from an open wound, though she was betting that not all of that blood was hits. Clara didn’t say anything, except—

“Where is he?”

“Told him to keep away,” he answered.

“Thanks.”

“What do you need?” Psi asked, his voice soft and full of concern.

“Move my stuff,” Clara told him. “Take it to Amy and Rory’s. I’m going to assume you can hack into mine and theirs’.”

“’Course,” he answered without hesitation. Clara smiled a little at that. He had to ask, however. “Why there?”

“Last place he’ll think to look,” she replied. “Guard yours and Saibra’s room. He’ll think I’m there until I can leave so he’ll be watching you.”

“On it. Shona?” He looked to the blonde and she nodded at him. Clara looked at the pair of them with grateful, teary eyes and smiled when they did not press further. Psi did, however, add, “Hey—if you need a place to stay, Saibs and I’ve got you, you know that, yeah?”

“I know,” she said. She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks.”

As he was leaving, she called out his name and he turned around. She asked, “Can I have the polaroid back?”

“Clara—” he started but she didn’t let him finish.

“I need it.”

“I don’t—”

“Psi,” she said. “I’m a big girl. And this is hardly the first time, innit?”

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

“I know. So am I.”

“Let me mess with him,” he requested. “Back up’s in Shona’s iPad, yeah? Let me fuck with him.”

“Do what you like,” Clara said with a shrug. Psi’s heart broke when he heard her voice break. She whispered as she added, “I just want to get out of here.”

 

* * *

  

By the time the Doctor made his way to his and Clara’s room, hoping against hope that she’d be there and she’d be by herself, Psi and Shona had already made their mark. Saibra had hardly allowed him out of her sight until they could do what they needed to do and she didn’t even let him speak so he could explain himself.

And he could explain himself—he _could_.

But it was clear that the damage his omission of this One Bad Thing had just begun. While Clara’s suitcases were nowhere to be found, the contents of his bags were ripped apart and scattered along the room. On the big television screen, there was a memory stick attached to the USB port and the screen played a digital video of the damning polaroid, playing on loop. It had animated effects and the flashing lights gave him a headache.

The bathroom mirror was vandalised with lipstick graffiti in Shona’s handwriting—the word ‘ _CHEAT_ ’ written in large, bold, red letters.

The Doctor ran his hand through his hair and turned on his heel, taking in the scene—unable to take in the idea that he lost her. That she’d run from him.

 _Oh,_ he thought to himself. _So this is how it feels_.

 

* * *

 

 

It was about an hour later that Amy Pond and Rory Williams decided to retreat into their room for a quick break from their search. They were never going to find their friends dressed up the way they were.

“We’ll keep looking, okay?” Amy said as she unlocked the door and swung it open. Rory entered just behind her and let the door shut in on itself. “They’ve got to be around here somewhere. Just let me change out of these shoes and— _JESUS CHRIST!_ ”

In the dark was Clara Oswald, curled into herself in a corner. She was surrounded by her luggage and she was holding on to a single Polaroid photo in her hands. Her eyes looked tired and her hair was disheveled. Rory had just one word to describe how she looked right then and there.

Broken.

She looked so small, hunched in the shadows as she was, but she looked at them with big, brown, red-rimmed eyes and swallowed.

“Lock it with the chain,” she managed to croak out.

Rory did as she asked and Amy was quick to sit down next to her, holding her arm.

“We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” said the Scotswoman.

Rory followed and sat on the other side of Clara and slung his arm around her shoulders. Clara leaned into him and sighed.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

By way of answering, she raised the polaroid in her hand. There was very little light from the outside as the storm clouds started to clear away, but the moon was not quite as bright as it was last night. Still, it was enough for the couple to see what was on the Polaroid and they were silent.

Clara took that as an answer to the next question she asked.

“Did you know?”

Amy and Rory gave each other a look. Clara tossed the photograph forward and let it fall to the floor.

“Know?” Rory asked.

“About her,” Clara clarified. “ _Missy._ ”

“We, uh—” Amy started.

“We thought he would’ve told you about her…” Rory tried.

“Speak for yourself—” his fiancée interjected.

“He didn’t,” said Clara, and that silenced the argument straightaway. Amy looked away and mimicked her fiancé as she put her arm around Clara too.

“They were old friends,” Amy answered. “From way, way back. From when they were kids. They had a falling out, though.”

“They seem friendly, enough,” said Clara with a low, bitter laugh. “Considering he left her at the altar?” Amy and Rory gave each other a look— _oh fuck_ , it said. “You’d think something like an ex-fiancée would come up after the fifth date. Hell, fifth _month._ ”

Rory rubbed her arm and held her tighter as she choked back a sob. He started to explain as Amy rested her head on Clara’s other shoulder.

“River found her a while back. Sent an invite to the wedding over a month ago—she didn’t know you and the Doctor were already together. We’ve been trying to keep them from seeing each other all day, honest. She and Evan thought to invite her before they knew about you and him, thought they could—”

“Could what?” Clara interrupted. “Get them back together?” she spat bitterly. She chuckled. “Guess they did it. Didn’t even take much.”

“Clara, what you’re thinking… he wouldn’t do this—” Amy tried. “He’s not the type to—”

“To what? Leave a woman at the altar? Lead me on when he was just waiting for someone he didn’t know would come back to him, or something?” said Clara. Tears were falling from her eyes without her control now and her voice broke with every other word. She couldn’t hold it in anymore. “And besides, he wouldn’t do this? Amy, he already _did._ ”

“I—” Amy tried to start but a knock came at the door.

“That’ll be him,” Clara whispered. And they all knew that she was right. “Don’t tell him I’m here. Don’t let him know that you know,” she said with pleading eyes. “Please, Amy.”

“Clara—” she started, her eyes welling up with tears.

“You _owe_ me,” the smaller woman said through grit teeth. “For _this_ , for not telling me when you knew—you _owe_ me.”

Amy swallowed and looked to Rory. Tears in his eyes, he gave her a silent nod. This was no time for them to be talking to one another—Clara needed time. Amy, then, inhaled and put on a steady face. Lying to the Doctor was something she hated to do—but goddamn, if she wasn’t good at it. The Doctor kept knocking on the door and she finally got up to go answer it.

She opened the door but the chain kept it from opening any further—and, therefore, kept the Doctor from seeing the scene just inside the room.

“Amy—” he said. “Have you seen Clara?”

“Nope—why? Waiting for Rory to come back—what’s happened to your face?” Amy said with truthful concern—Clara hadn’t told them about Psi’s outburst. The redhead moved to close the door, to motion for him to come in—just to make sure that he wouldn’t. “Come in here—”

“No, it doesn’t matter. I—” he said. “I have to find Clara.”

“I’ll come with you—” Amy tried.

“No,” he told her. “You stay. Stay here. Call me if you see her, if she comes by. Please.”

The Doctor didn’t give Amy time to respond as he ran off again, in search of Clara.

“Doctor!” Amy called out. “ _Doctor!_ ”

“Just stay in your room, Pond!” he yelled as his reply.

When he turned the corner and she knew he would not return, Amy put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the doorknob. She locked the door behind her as she went back to sit next to her distraught friend.

“I’ll be leaving on the first train out,” she said quietly. She raised her head slightly and swung her head to look at them both. “Do you mind if I stay here ‘til I go?”

“You can stay as long as you need,” said Rory, a small smile on his face.

Amy held her tighter—so did Rory, and Clara wanted to thank them. She did. But the words were caught in her throat. She tried to open her mouth to speak but it would not come out. All she could do was nod and smile without humour.

Clara grit her teeth.

Her lower lip trembled.

She finally allowed her tears to erupt—and she wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.


End file.
